The Man Who Spewed Too Much
by Lampito
Summary: He is their new god, Castiel. He's got the god moves: joke missiles, giant walls of toffee, rains of lobster bisque, and the god wisdom: drinking sewage won't cure diseases, and even some god Commandments. And also, the mother of all tummy aches... but never fear, Dean knows how to deal with that, and Sam has a quote for any occasion.
1. Prologue

All right, so there's been some muttering about the unfairness of Bunny #2 and then Bunny #1 from 'The Jimiverse's Next Top Plot Bunny getting an airing, while the smallest and most nebulous one, Bunny #3 (rehabilitation of Godstiel in the Jimiverse), didn't even get a mention. Well, if nothing else, a fickriter must be mindful of her reviewers' preferences, so I thought I'd try a strategy that has worked before: start writing something, and see if the bunny is emboldened by a bit of an airing. (It's always a gamble when you don't know exactly where a story will go, but we seem to muddle along in most cases.) I just hope it doesn't get pulled because of the title...

**DISCLAIMER: **They're not mine. Seriously. I'd be a lot richer if they were.

**TITLE: **The Man Who Spewed Too Much

**SUMMMARY: **He is their new god, Castiel. He's got all the god moves (joke missiles, rains of lobster bisque), the god wisdom (drinking faecally contaminated water won't cure diseases) and some god Commandments. And also, the mother of all tummy aches... but never fear, Dean knows how to deal with that, and Sam has a quote for every occasion. How Godstiel rehabilitated back into the nerdy, socially awkward, deadpan Sheriff of Heaven that he is in the Jimiverse.

**RATING: T. **Because Dean's potty mouth is bound to crop up sooner or later

**BLAME: **Lies ENTIRELY with the Denizens who pushed for an airing of Bunny #3 from 'The Jimiverse's Next Top Plot Bunny'.

* * *

**PROLOGUE**

Dean Winchester didn't claim to be a learned man. He didn't claim to be particularly smart, particularly intelligent, particularly wise, or particularly well educated. But he was certain that he did know one thing.

His life sucked, and God hated him.

Two things, then. His life sucked, God hated him, and the entire universe got its amusement from kicking him when he was down.

Okay, he knew three things. His life sucked, God hated him, the entire universe got its amusement from kicking him, and angels were, after all, all dicks.

He frowned.

Among the things he knew were: His life sucked, God hated him, universe got its jollies, angels were dicks, and he'd been exposed to too many late-night Monty Python reruns as a small child...

"Give me a hand here," Bobby broke into his thoughts, and Dean rushed to help him manhandle his gigantic baby bro's unresisting form out of the truck and into the house, where they settled him on the sofa. Sam yawned, squirmed to get comfortable, and began to snore gently. There didn't seem to be anything wrong with him other than the fact he wouldn't wake up.

"What did our new 'god' do to him?" Dean asked.

"No idea," scowled Bobby, "But when I find out, I'm goin' to pull on his feathers until he cries. God's tits, you weigh a ton, Sam..."

"You talkin' to me?" mumbled Sam.

Dean and Bobby stared at the younger Winchester.

"Sam?" prompted Dean, shaking his brother's shoulder gently.

"I want to be alone," Sam muttered, his face clouding.

"I'm not going anywhere, bro," Dean told him firmly, "Until we find out what that flying dick did to your head, then we pluck him and crumb him and fry him in holy oil..."

"Quite frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn," Sam smiled, yawned again, and went back to snoring.

Dean blinked in bemusement at his brother.

"He's just talkin' in his sleep, son," Bobby rolled his eyes.

"I didn't even have the salmon mousse," Sam yawned.

Dean sighed, and ran a hand down his face. "Okay, so, we gotta find Castiel, or find a way to summon him, then get him to fix Sam, then we gotta fix him, or kill him."

"You can't fight in here! This is the War Room!" announced Sam.

"Well," mused Bobby, "If Cas is serious about being a god, I guess he'll be wantin' to go out and do some godding. Announce himself, as it were. So, if we just watch for signs of, I dunno, miracles and such, I guess, we may be able to figure out what he's up to. He'll have to show himself if he wants to be worshipped."

"I got no other ideas," shrugged Dean, turning on the TV and searching for a news channel. "All I know is, I want to shoot an angel in a trench coat."

"One morning, I shot an elephant in my pyjamas," added Sam, snuggling under his blanket.

Yep, thought Dean, life officially sucked, whether you expect the Spanish Inquisition or not.

* * *

So, whaddyareckon? Reviews might encourage the bunny to continue!


	2. Chapter 1

I think it's working! Speak, little bunny, whisper your madness! *feeds bunny another review*

* * *

**CHAPTER ONE**

It began with a strange medical condition that baffled ENT specialists, who dubbed it Acute Onset Nasodilatory Tissue Proliferative Disorder. Earnest middle-aged men in white coats and plushly appointed consulting rooms speculated about some novel mutation in the signalling cascade controlling apoptosis, somehow linked with reactivation of a population of chondroblasts and hyperproliferation of keratinocytes. The most peculiar aspect of this baffling condition was the patients they were seeing: across the globe, it affected televangelists and politicians exclusively, every time one of them made an appeal for more money or promised to do something for a constituency.

The general worldwide public quickly christened it Pinocchio's Disease, and multiple web pages making fun of the bewildered victims, with footage of their noses actually growing in real time, received millions of hits.

Then Celine Dion, Sarah Palin, Donatella Versace and Justin Bieber all made low key public announcements that they were going to retire from worldly life, and enter cloistered convents.

A botanist in southern Australia discovered a small grove of a previously undescribed tree that bore a high-fibre, low-calorie, vitamin-packed fruit that looked, smelled and tasted remarkably like a glazed doughnut.

A humble farmer in South America, who dabbled with plant breeding as a hobby, identified a sport strain of carrot that, when sliced, made carrot sticks that tasted like french fries.

A strange electronic phenomenon, which physicists attributed to an increase in sunspot activity, affected buildings where people gathered together, such as cinemas and theatres and auditoriums, so that mobile phones ceased to function inside such venues.

A number of struggling nursing homes experienced rains of electric wheelchairs, automatic recliner chairs and lobster bisque.

There was a short sharp shower of pancakes over the suburbs of Paris.

A delegation consisting of a humpback whale, a dolphin and a great white shark came ashore in Capetown, called a press conference, and politely requested that humans stop dumping so much garbage in the living room, please.

A certain Asian country carried out a missile test, and their pudgy leader went more ballistic than the payload when it fizzled out on the launch pad, and a big flag reading 'KWANG' (which is Korean for 'bang') popped out of the top.

His tantrum wasn't nearly as impressive as the one thrown by a certain leader in the Middle East, who nearly had a seizure after his bewildered gofers had to tell him that the high speed centrifuges used to purify radioisotopes for peaceful purposes had mysteriously disappeared, and on the heavy concrete foundations where these massive machines once stood there were now located rows and rows of music boxes with little plastic ballerinas spinning around to tinny music.

The leadership of a certain non-Arab state located in the Middle East nearly laughed themselves sick when word got back to them. However, they stopped laughing when messages began arriving that the gigantic wall they'd so carefully constructed out of large concrete blocks had, overnight, turned to toffee, carefully stamped with the appropriate documentation in chocolate to indicate on one side that it was kosher and on the other that it was halal, and now the occupants on both sides (who tended to be far less paranoid than those who led them) were busy licking their way to conciliation. (Strangely, that incident resulted in a lot of unlikely friendships when perfect strangers from either side of the toffee wall ended up licking through the same spot together, or sat down afterwards and consoled each other about their mutual tummy aches.)

Some bearded men who preached hate on a regular basis were horrified to wake up and discover that in their sleep, they had been tattooed with the phrase STOP IT - NO VIRGINS FOR YOU.

Two rabbles in Africa who were not disciplined enough to be called armies discovered, mid-battle, that their weapons would only fire liquorice bullets, and the populace they had been so keen on cowing and slaughtering were too busy to pay them any attention, since the thorny trees that were usually utilised for scant firewood had suddenly bloomed jars of peanut butter and protein bars. Several self-appointed senior offices were suddenly afflicted with terrible haemorrhoids, and by a strange set of circumstances (involving an ancient ritual and a Clever Woman who had her suspicions about what was happening), it was discovered that the only way to relieve the agonising symptoms was to set up a blackboard in a public place every day and have them write 'I MUST NOT ENSLAVE CHILDREN BECAUSE IT IS A SIN' a hundred times.

The doomsday, end-of-times crowd were in confusion. It was very difficult to go door-to-door, or on television, and preach that The End Was Nigh when strange things kept happening to make the world a better place. (If you were on television, there was always the distinct chance of contracting Pinocchio's Disease.) Episodes of cosmic comeuppance could be twisted to indicate that the wicked were being punished for their lack of belief (provided you had a good ENT surgeon on speed dial), but it was the announcement of the plan to open a clinic staffed jointly by Israeli and Palestinian doctors to treat the sudden spike in type II diabetes in that part of the world that really put the kybosh on their efforts.

So by the time Castiel appeared at Lourdes, introducing himself as humanity's new god, people were ready to believe that somebody was looking out for them. There was always a camera crew or three hanging around there, making some program or other either proving the place was authentic, debunking the myth, or looking for aliens, so he found himself at the centre of a hastily convened press call.

"Hello, my name is Castiel. I am your new god. I am a better one. I would like you to worship me now... no, I am not the Virgin Mary, I just told you, I am Castiel. No, not really. I was just passing through from checking on the peanut butter trees in Africa. Why are _you_ here?... Really? No, not really. She did? That girl was excitable and suggestible, and under the influence of hallucinogenic substances produced by the fungi growing in the grotto. Now, as I was saying, I am your god now, and I would like you to worship me...

"Sir, I suggest you do not drink that, the man who peddles those flasks of water from the 'holy spring' actually filled them from a tap behind his shed, and the water it contaminated with the contents of a leaking septic system... oh. Well, it might be prudent to keep some anti-diarrhoeal medications with you for the next twenty-four to forty-eight hours. So, bow down and worship me... No, it will not work even if you boil it first. Why would anyone believe that drinking faecally-contaminated water would make their limbs grow back? No, madam, I assure you, _E. coli _infection does not cure spina bifida. There is some suggestion that infection with helminthic parasites may facilitate recovery from allergies, but...

"No, madam, your child is not autistic, merely thoughtful for his age – I would be far more concerned about your own neuroses and appalling dietary habits. Perhaps the doughnut trees and carrot fries will help you to reach a more sensible weight.

"Now, as I was saying, I am your new god, I will be a better one, and all I ask in return is... Oh, very well. Please form an orderly queue. I would like to do this as efficiently as possible; there are lepers in India requiring my attention. Yes, of course you may drink it if you are thirsty but I assure you it doesn't... no, not _that_ water, I just told you, it's contaminated and will make you... never mind, just join the queue..."

They watched the footage of Castiel healing the sick, restoring the lame, relieving an overanxious mother of her neuroses and presumably heading off some nasty bouts of gastroenteritis.

"Well, he's broken cover," shrugged Bobby, as they watched the footage that was running on every major network, "And gettin' on with the business of godding."

"Well, he can damned well get his feathery ass here, and do his healing on Sam, preferably before lunch," griped Dean, looking anxiously to his little brother. Sam had woken up about twenty hours after Castiel had disappeared, and seemed to be fine. Well, except for...

"I don't think he knows about second breakfast," Sam told him, tapping at his laptop.

Dean sighed.

"I'd try to get you onto a game show somewhere, if we didn't need you here to work your internet mojo and track what he's doing," he humphed at Sam.

"I like to watch," Sam nodded, not looking up from the screen.

"I'm gonna get something to eat," decided Dean. "You want some rabbit food, Bugs?"

"Lunch is for wimps," Sam shrugged.

"I'm gonna make us some coffee," Bobby said. "You want some, boy?"

"I take it black, like my men," Sam replied.

Bobby patted Dean on the back until his choking episode spluttered to a halt.

"I'll, er, just go put on a pot, then," he muttered.

* * *

OMG It's working! It's alive! It's alive! Live, raconteurial rodent, live!

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Gambolling Playfully Under The Doughnut Tree Of Life!


	3. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

"So, what's he up to now?" asked Bobby, as he served up the coffee when Dean returned. "Finished healing those lepers?"

"The Reverend Mother always says, 'When the Lord closes a door, somewhere He opens a window'," replied Sam, turning the laptop around to show them what he'd found.

"What the hell is that?" asked Dean, peering at the screen.

In large text, news sites across the world were running the feed that all their servers had received simultaneously.

**CASTIEL'S TEN* COMMANDMENTS.**

"Oh, crap," moaned Dean, "Surely he can't be expecting people to take this seriously."

In very small text under that, ran the line:

*Castiel reserves the right to update, alter or otherwise edit this list without notice."

"I am serious," said Sam glumly, "And stop calling me Shirley."

"God's tits," breathed Bobby, "He really did hang around with humans too much."

In bold script, the new god's Commandments were laid out.

_1) Thou shalt not kill. Except for large hairy poisonous spiders and invasive introduced weeds. Accidentally stepping on insects shall not count. Destruction of bacteria for health and safety purposes is also permitted; use of an autoclave shall not leave a stain upon the soul._

_2) Thou shalt not tell lies. Unless someone asks if a particular garment makes them appear overweight, in which case you may aver provided you do so to spare their feelings._

_3) Love thy neighbour. If thou really love thy neighbour, please practise safe sex. If thy neighbour loves thy neighbour, thou shalt butt out and keep thy nose out of what is none of thy business. The bodies aren't important, the intent of love is. If you find it so offensive, what are you doing looking anyway?_

_4) Thou shalt try much harder to be civil to thy fellow human beings, both locally and globally. To this end, Thursday shall be designated a day for observing this Commandment, and shall be the day upon which you will bake pie, and seek to share it with someone in conversation, reconciliation or even consummation, in which case please practise safe sex._

Dean blinked in bemusement. "Holy Pie Thursday?" he managed finally, "We now have Holy Pie Thursday?"

"No, it's not what you think," sighed Sam, "It's much, much worse."

_5) Thou shalt be kind to animals. Thou shalt even make every effort to kill large hairy poisonous spiders as humanely as possible._

_6) Whenever thou sittest down to eat, thou shalt thank the cook politely, and thou shalt chew with thy mouth closed. Nor shalt thou speak until thou hast swallowed thy mouthful._

"Sounds like you could be headed straight back Downstairs, son," Bobby chortled at Dean, wo shot him a dirty look.

_7) Thous shalt not covet thy neighbour's ass. Examine your feelings; be honest about your admiration of his ass. Praise his ass. You might find that you have an interest in common. He may invite you to share his ass, in which case, please practise safe sex._

_8) Thou shalt maintain thy motor vehicle in good repair, lest it malfunction and cause an accident or run inefficiently and contribute even more to pollution._

_9) Thou shalt not attempt to emulate the pizza man unless thou art actually a pizza man, and thy customer has indeed been naughty. Please practise safe sex._

_10) I am thy god, Castiel. Thou shalt not be unspeakably awful to each other in my name. If you find yourself wishing to smite someone, bake a pie instead and talk to them over it. If you must smite each other, then at least have the guts to own up to your own pathetic prejudices – don't drag me into it, and don't expect me to help you behave like spoiled, tantruming three-year-olds. You are all as important as each other. I am not on anybody's side._

_10a) Thou shalt not pester me with selfish wants or trivial problems that you can fix for yourselves. I am a busy god. Feeding the starving, healing the desperately sick, these are worth my attention. Giving you a bigger house or a prettier wife or a third car or a winning lottery ticket or making you thirty pounds lighter are not. I have given you the doughnut trees and the carrot fries, surely you can take it from there._

_10b) I mean it about the car. I really do. And those women are anorexic and airbrushed anyway. You will never look like them, so stop trying. Move around more, and eat less junk food._

_10c) If you think there is something wrong with you anatomically, see a qualified medical practitioner. Don't pray to me over such a trivial thing. Why you would want it to be longer, I will never understand. It is perfectly functional as it is. Compared to other primates, it is proportionally much bigger. Don't complain about it, just enjoy it. Please practise safe sex._

"Looks like Lord Cas is havin' a bit of trouble comin' to grips with the way his adoring subjects' minds work," grinned Bobby.

"Hey, if you like that, you're gonna love this," grinned Sam, indicating to an updated list. As they had been reading, another Commandment was added to the list.

_10d) For the last time, drinking sewage is not a credible cure for anything; it will make you unwell, so do not do it._

"Y'know, as rules and regs go, he's not doin' too badly," Bobby mused thoughtfully. "Be civil to each other, butt out of other people's private lives, mind your table manners, sort out your own problems, get your priorities straight. You could do worse for a god."

"He's not a god," Dean declared firmly.

"He's a very naughty boy," agreed Sam.

"Where's the bit about 'Thou shalt not mess with the heads of those who are trying to save you from yourself and stop you from being a total dick'?" Dean demanded angrily. "You know, 'Thou shalt not poke at somebody's brain until he's a walking advert for Trivial Pursuit'?"

"Sam seems to be basically all right," Bobby pointed out, "Except for, you know."

"What, the fact that he can't open his mouth without sounding like a candidate for hosting a late night movie show on community TV?" snarked Dean.

"I can't even balance my cheque book!" Sam nodded.

"All right, all right, calm down," Bobby said, frowning. "Whether or not he is a god, for the moment he has the power to do a pretty damned convincing impression of one. If we want to take down a god, we're going to need power from someone who can wield a bigger hammer, so to speak."

Dean looked confused. "Are you suggesting that we summon Thor?" he asked.

Sam rolled his eyes. "I've worn dresses with higher IQs," he said.

"Nope," confirmed Bobby, "I'm thinking bigger. I'm thinking of the one guy we know can best a god."

Dean looked at him. "You're thinking of summoning Death? What, binding him and ordering him to kill Cas?"

"Nope again," Bobby shook his head, "I was plannin' on inviting him for a chat, and asking him nicely for some advice. He strikes me as a guy who appreciates politeness."

"There's a rite for that?" Dean looked at Bobby dubiously.

"Yep," grinned the old Hunter, "An old friend of mine told me about it. You can make it as occult as you want, but it's actually not very complicated – technically all we need is two small sticks and a fresh egg – and I think it's our best shot. If anybody knows how to deal with Godstiel, Death is our man."

"ANTHROPOMORPHIC PERSONIFICATION," corrected Sam in a deep and hollow tone.

"Yeah, okay," sighed Dean. "I was kinda, well, kinda hoping there would be some way we could talk to Cas, not have to kill him, just show him he's being a dick, without getting our heads blown off."

"It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to your enemies, but a great deal more to stand up to your friends," added Sam.

As they watched, another Commandment was added to the list.

_10e) Thou shalt take responsibility for thine own actions. You should have known the coffee was hot. You should have known that daily consumption of that many calories would make you obese. I will not smite a fast food chain just because you were too foolish to put your coffee into the cup holder properly and too greedy to moderate your diet. Nor will I 'inspire' them to 'compensate' you with ten million dollars. You are an adult, thou shalt act like one. Seriously. Thou shalt stop annoying thy god with whining tantrums. It's your own fault. Thou shalt stop it right now. ALL of thou shalt stop it right now. I'm getting a headache._

"Who knows," grinned Bobby, "He may be more willing to listen than you expect."

* * *

I don't want to speak too soon, but I think we might yet get an honest-to-Cas story out of this one. Go little bunny, go!

Reviews are the List Of Things You'd Like To Do With The Winchester Of Your Choice in the Fic Of Life! (Top of my list is 'ask for an introduction to Bobby'.)


	4. Chapter 3

For the people who want to accept Castiel as their personal saviour, perhaps you could refer to yourselves as Castoffs? Castanuts? Castrators? Cassettes? Casanovans?

* * *

**CHAPTER THREE**

"How are you doin' in there, Dean?" asked Bobby, cocking his head and frowning thoughtfully at the vase in front of him.

Sonofabitch!" came the reply from the kitchen.

"Do I even want to know?" sighed Bobby.

"The tray in the oven was hot when I grabbed it," griped Dean.

"Gee, who'da thunk it?" gasped Bobby theatrically.

Sam looked up from the tablecloth he was ironing. "Gruesome isn't he? Fumbles at your head like a freshman pulling at a panty girdle."

"There have been times when I've wanted to bang both your heads together, son," Bobby informed him, frowning at his arrangement.

"It's your damned oven gloves' fault," complained Dean, "They're threadbare, and about as useful as a baconburger at a bar mitzvah. I burned my finger!"

"Oh, you poor baby, here, let me drop what I'm doing to dry your tears, kiss your booboo, bathe it tenderly and sing you to sleep as I knit some new ones," tut-tutted Bobby.

"Or would you like me to wash your dick, you little shit," added Sam.

"Gee, don't go overboard on the whole sympathy thing," grumbled Dean. "So, what now?"

"Go get the box from under the stairs," instructed Bobby, "The one marked 'Good Crockery'."

"I hear and obey," Dean bowed deeply and headed for the stairs, while Sam set the table.

"Bobby," he said carefully when he returned, "Bobby, this teapot is..."

"Very good quality, more than a hundred years old, and irreplaceable," finished Bobby. "Be careful with it."

"Well, I was going to say 'remarkably pornographic for something you'd take out to have tea with an important visitor and also astonishingly ugly," Dean went on, carefully unloading the box, "But... er, why is there a bunch of sticks in the middle of the table?"

"You really are a simple creature, aren't you?" Sam rolled his eyes.

"Son, I don't expect you to have any appreciation of Wedgewood porcelain or Japanese aesthetics," humphed Bobby, "So go make yourself useful, and put the pastries in the oven."

"Some people might think that inviting Death to afternoon tea was somewhere between ridiculous and suicidal," asserted Dean.

"Well, if you can think of a better idea, now is the time," Bobby grumped, "Now run over to the Widder Widderspoon and ask for an egg laid today."

"Why do I have to go?" whined Dean. "She's a creepy old cat lady. She _looks_ at me. Hell, she _looks_ at you, Bobby. You should let us salt and burn her..."

"And make sure you're back in time to get the pastries out," Bobby instructed.

"Those who are tardy do not get fruit cup," Sam added pointedly.

"I'm going, I'm going," Dean complained, "But if I burn my hand again because of your terrible oven glove, it's on you."

By the time the various tidbits had been prepared, the room had been arranged, and an egg and two sticks had been procured, Bobby pronounced himself satisfied.

"Okay, let's get this shindig on the road," he decided, putting on a large, red, pointy hat with a wide brim. A subtle motif of bananas was embroidered around it.

"Nice hat," commented Sam.

"Very nice," agreed Dean, "Very Professor McGonagall."

"Part of the rite," shrugged Bobby, "A present from the guy who told me about it. Mostly the 'requirements' are observed for tradition's sake, and to deter dabblers. In reality, you can work this with just a couple of things, but however you do it, for some reason it only works if you wear a pointy hat." He gave Dean the once-over. "I'm pretty sure I instructed you to put on a clean shirt."

"This is clean!" insisted Dean. "It is clean... ish."

"Laundered sometime in the last year would've been nice," Bobby muttered, as he began to recite the ancient pan-dimensional ritual.

It was one of the most anti-climactic workings since ten-year-old Sam's earnest yet doomed effort to get Brussels sprouts to undergo mitosis, which, according to Dean, would've been even more disappointing if it had succeeded.

"Okaaaaay, so... now what?" asked Dean, looking around.

"You check the pastries, and we wait for a reply to our invitation," replied Bobby. "Oh, and get the kettle boiling."

They waited. They waited some more.

After a while, nothing continued to happen.

Sam sighed. "So what are you gonna try next? Cheese?" he asked.

"Give it time," instructed Bobby, "After all, he's a busy... anthropomorphic personification. He may be right in the middle of something, something big. After all, Godstiel hasn't managed to put up toffee walls everywhere yet."

"Actually, it was a routine purging in North Korea," said a well-spoken voice from behind them. "Darling Leader, or whatever they're calling this one, was not happy when his latest phallic display to the rest of the world was a lot funnier than it was intimidating."

Bobby and Sam spun around. Death sat on the sofa, patting Jimi, who offered a paw in greeting.

"Thank you for your kind invitation, Mr Singer," Death went on, "Are those chocolate chip cookies I detect on the table?"

"Uh, it was very good of you to drop in," Bobby said, removing his hat. "They are chocolate chip. Dean made them. Would you like something to go with them?"

"Coffee? Tea? Me?" asked Sam.

"Oh, tea would be most welcome, thank you," Death smiled, as Sam goggled in disbelief then fled for the kitchen.

"So, to what do I owe the pleasure of this invitation, Mr Singer?" asked Death. "I suspect it wasn't just to impress me with your facility in the practise of ikebana."

"Bobby, please," Bobby replied. "And no, it's not. I'm pretty sure you're already aware that we have a problem here."

A sudden cry of "OW! Sonofabitch!" came from the kitchen. Death cocked an eyebrow.

"Well, if you would care to shoot him, I will see that he is removed directly," he suggested. "Otherwise, there are a number of finishing schools in England or Switzerland that might be prepared to take on the challenge, although you might have to offer danger money..."

"There are days when I'm tempted," Bobby rolled his eyes, and Death actually smiled, "But no. I'm referrin' to our new, improved, low-fat, high-fibre, would be deity, Castiel."

"Ah yes, young Castiel," mused Death, "God lite. Not as much god, but better for you, presumably." He cocked his head. "I believe he is currently issuing Commandment 10wiii. Something about pizza..."

"I don't want to know," griped Dean, coming in with a plate of small savouries, Sam following with the teapot on a tray, "Unless it's a declaration that thin crust is an abomination unto his holy taste buds."

"What we need to know," Bobby frowned at Dean, "Is what happened when he opened up that Purgatory gateway. And, for preference, how we go about stopping him, undoing what's happened to him. What we need to know is, what is his weakness?"

"Eef eet bleeds, wee can keel eet," nodded Sam, pouring the tea.

"Oh, yeah," interrupted Dean, "There's also the slight technical difficulty with Channel Sam – he's been stuck on a movie marathon since our new god demanded our worship."

Death peered keenly at Sam, who smiled back sheepishly. "Oh dear," he muttered, "It looks as though your ambitious little friend has... knocked a hole in the wall. What Sam is experiencing is flashbacks from his time in the Cage."

Dean looked flabbergasted. "You mean... they watched movies?"

"Amongst other things," Death shrugged, accepting his tea from Sam. "And before you ask, no, I cannot rebuild it. Poking at it would make it worse. And there were less pleasant things than Keanu Reeves movie marathons that went on there," he added ominously. "There were... Lucifer's personal letters." They all looked suitably appalled.

"It's official, I'm never sleeping again," announced Sam.

"Great," griped Dean, as Sam handed him a coffee, "So, how do we stop him?"

Death took a small pastry, and bit into it thoughtfully. "These are very good," he pronounced. "You have hidden talents, Mr Winchester, if a somewhat foul mouth and irritatingly arrogant demeanour. And while I am grateful to be invited politely to tea, and I am inclined to sympathise with your predicament, I might also be amused to hear why you think I would act to assist you in this matter."

"Because from your perspective, Godstiel is a tantruming brat, and what he's doin' is against the proper order of things," Bobby told him promptly, as Death watched him shrewdly. "And we know that you have no tolerance for celestial brats. I'm guessin' that Mr Anti-Entropy is messin' with things on a cosmic scheme in ways he doesn't understand. All actions have consequences. I'm guessin' that Darling Leader's purge was just the tip of the iceberg that's now driftin' into your shipping lane."

Death savoured the last of his pastry, and selected a mini quiche. "You are wasted as nursemaid to Winchesters The Elder and The Younger, you do know that?" he smiled. "This is also very good, Dean, next time I require canapés for a formal function, I shall definitely consider retaining your services." He finished his quiche. "Bobby, you are indeed correct. What the foolish young fledgling is doing is... not right. It is, as you put it, not within the proper ordering of things. There's a reason that his Father did not go around intervening in corporeal affairs."

"So, what exactly did he do?" pressed Bobby.

"Not wishing to sound overly dramatic, he has... swallowed a large number of souls from Purgatory," Death informed them, "As you have already surmised, souls can be a source of power. Unfortunately, he has also ingested some other inhabitants, things called Leviathans. Some of The Almighty's earliest creations. Let us just say that they are... not nice."

"How not nice?" asked Dean.

"Oh, the usual, for extremely powerful, selfish, angry, greedy, arrogant organ-eating monsters who seethe with resentment and raging homicidal hatred towards the human race that they see as utterly inferior to themselves while dreaming constantly of escaping to subjugate humans to the status of a convenient and compliant food source herd," Death waved a hand dismissively. "That sort of not nice. Not nice enough for their Father Himself to lock them away where they could never escape to wreak havoc upon His squishy organic mortal children."

Dean looked thoughtful. "So, first time around, He build Lore, then He realised His mistake and He made Data?" he ventured.

Sam facepalmed. "Chicolini here may talk like an idiot, and look like an idiot, but don't let that fool you: he is an idiot."

Death smiled indulgenty. "Actually, Sam, your brother has, unexpectedly, come up with an astonishingly good analogy," he smiled. "Well, they're all swirling around inside Castiel, powering his delusions of godhood. Unfortunately, he is not nearly as secure a storage facility as Purgatory." He nibbled delicately at a cookie. "Perhaps, Dean, you may think of it as feeding your brother a dozen 'Volcano Special' burritos, followed by a 'Nuclear Fission' enchilada washed down with a 'Megadeath' Hot Sauce smoothie with added halapenos. Sooner or later, they will find a way out."

"God's tits," breathed Bobby in alarm.

"So, can you help us?" asked Dean. "What can we use to shut him down? An angel sword? A Meat-Lovers with extra cheese and anchovies? A phaser set to stun? A tanker of Pepto-Bismol? What?"

"There is no weapon that can damage him," confided Death regretfully.

Sam looked exasperated. "What the hell are we supposed to use, man? Harsh language?"

Death looked thoughtful. "I believe that he may in fact be willing to come to you," he suggested. "He is, after all, new to godhood, and is experiencing some... difficulties."

"What sort of difficulties?" asked Bobby.

"Well, for a start, he is having some trouble coming to terms with the adulation that he thought he craved," Death told them. "For example, did you know that in France and several French-speaking countries in Africa, despite his constant attempts to discourage it, a small but growing cult of drinking sewage for purposes of spiritual purification has taken hold?" He looked slightly annoyed. "It has kept my Reapers much busier than anticipated in last century's strategic planning. Not to mention the number of elderly people with shellfish allergies..."

"Er, no, I didn't know that," Bobby replied, looking slightly green.

"Well, you are the only humans he can approach without having them fall on their knees, attempt to exorcise him, attempt to blow him up or claim to be carrying his holy child via the miracle of an immaculate conception," Death went on. "Perhaps if you extend a polite invitation to him, as you did to me, he may grant you an audience, since he was so keen to be worshipped by you." He pulled a fob watch from a pocket. "Oh, dear," he sighed, "I really must be going. So much toffee. Their pancreases just cannot handle it..."

"What? Wait!" yelped Dean, "So, we get him here, then what?"

Death smiled. "Perhaps hold his hair out of the way and make soothing noises whilst rubbing his back gently, if you are feeling inclined to act like his friend. Thank you for your company and the refreshments, gentlemen, good day." With a very small inrush of air, he disappeared.

"Gah!" Sam burst out in frustration, yelling at the empty air, "Why do you have to be such a wanker?"

Bobby looked thoughtful. "I think he may have given us more info than you think," he said.

"So, what do we do?" asked Dean.

"Just what Joe Black suggested," shrugged Bobby, "We invite Castiel over for a break from the cultural incomprehension, and offer him somethin' instead of askin' for a new car or a bigger dick. We profess our love and devotion, and ask for an audience to worship him unostentatiously, in private. If he's feeling a bit... queasy, we ask him about it."

"Then what?" snapped Dean.

"Well," grinned Bobby, "You bein' the one with the 'profound bond', I guess you get to decide whether you want to hold the bucket, his hand or his hair."

"Great, just great," grumped Dean. "All right. We pray to Cas, we adore him from afar, then we... do whatever. I'll just go put my boots on."

"Er, if we're gonna do any prayin', we can do it in here," Bobby pointed out.

"Yeah," agreed Dean, "But if this goes south and we all end up dead, I want to have something really solid on my feet, because my first act as a dead person will be to kick Death in the nuts."

* * *

Ooooh, that was a longer one. *frowns* Have any of the Denizens been praying to Cas?

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Bringing You Delightful Nibblies On The Tea Tray Of Life!


	5. Chapter 4

**Dean: **Hey! HEY!

**Lampito: **What?

**Dean: **I am NOT serving cookies like this!

**Lampito:** You don't like the colour? I only made it pink because that's what aeicha wrote. Would you prefer blue? How about black? Nice, shiny, satiny black...

**Dean:** Listen, you pathetic review addict, I am NOT serving ANYBODY cookies wearing nothing but an apron!

**Lampito:** Suit yourself. *the eebil fickriter taps at keyboard* There. Better?

**Dean:** AAAAARRRRGGGGGGGGGH! *runs away*

**Sam (doing double take):** Did I just see Dean run through here wearing nothing but oven gloves?

**Lampito:** Technically there was also a tray of cookies. *hands him apron* Try this on Stretch. Can you balance a tray on each hand?

* * *

**CHAPTER FOUR**

"They aint payin' us enough for this," muttered Sam mutinously.

"For the record, I aint enjoying this any either," Bobby informed him, "But right now it's all we got. So, quit your whinin', gentlemen, and assume the position." Stiffly, he knelt, and the Winchesters joined him. Jimi trotted forward, and dropped in a show of solidarity. "Well, don't just kneel there, boy," Bobby told Dean, "Make with the adoration."

"Yeah, yeah," griped Dean, putting his hands together and clearing his throat. "Okay. Er... now I lay me down to sleep..."

"Except we aint," Bobby pointed out.

"Right, right," Dean stuttered to a halt. "Uh... our Castiel, who art in... where was he seen last?"

"Saigon. Shit," answered Sam.

"Oh, yeah, our Castiel, who art in Vietnam, hallowed be thy name, uh, no, wait... Hail Castiel, full of souls from Purgatory, the Leviathans are with thee..."

"Tactful, real tactful," huffed Bobby.

"I'm trying! Um... Dear Castiel, our friend and our god, who would save the ignorant from drinking sewage and the foolish from trying to copy the pizza man, hello from Sioux Falls. We are all well, except for Sam, on account of you having punched a hole in the wall in his head like a total dick..."

"Smooth as an android's bottom," commented Sam, eyes rolling.

"Shut up... We are all well, more or less. The weather here continues warmer..."

Bobby glared pointedly at him.

"Yeah, so, er, we're all doing okay, and we were wondering, how are you? Congratulations on your toffee wall, it's very impressive. And I laughed out loud at the North Korean rocket. We were very sorry to hear that people keep drinking sewage in your name, that must be very frustrating when you are just trying to help. So, uh, if you have time in your busy schedule to, you know, drop by, if you find you need a break from the people with small dicks and rocket launchers and immaculate babies and stuff, we'd be really pleased to hear from you, because we're, uh, a bit worried about you, and it would be nice to thank you personally for your efforts, because it can't be easy trying to make everybody happy, and the doughnut tree thing, totally awesome, so if you'd, er, like to, you know, come on by for some worship and adoration, we'd be really grateful. Amen."

"Amen," echoed Bobby and Sam dutifully.

"So, now what?" griped Dean.

"I guess we wait," shrugged Bobby.

"Outstanding," huffed Sam. "Now all we need is a deck of cards."

"If his holy accountantness thinks I'm going to wait around with bated breath for him to show his feathery ass, he can think again," Dean stated, "I'll be outside working on my car, my wrecked car, my wrecked car that is like that because of a certain flying..."

There was a flap of wings and trench-coat.

"Hello Dean."

Dean jumped like he'd been stung. "Jesus Christ, Cas, how many times do I have to say it? Personal! Fucking! Space! How the hell can you..." he gradually trickled to a halt, as Castiel stared at him hard.

"I don't wanna explode," said Sam in a small voice.

"I mean," Dean went on hurriedly, "It's not... appropriate for a god to be so close to one of his... subjects, is it? There should be, uh," he waved a hand vaguely, "A respectful distance between the divine person of the, er, divine person, and the, um, humble mortal, in order to show proper respect, and reverence, and... respect."

Castiel's face broke into a small, benevolent smile. "My apologies," he said, "It was not my intention to make you feel uncomfortable with the close proximity of my divine self."

"No, no, no, that's fine," Dean assured him, "It's just a bit... overwhelming, you know? For all of us." Sam and Bobby nodded vigorously. "What with you being our god now. Our better, benevolent, car-mangling god..."

"We are overwhelmed that you have time to visit us, your... godness," Bobby cut in smoothly, "When clearly, you have so much important work to do, ministering to the hungry, the sick, the oppressed..."

"The wrecked, the quote-obsessed," Dean added under his breath. Sam elbowed him viciously.

"It was pleasing to me to receive your prayer," Castiel smiled gently, "As we last parted under... unfortunate circumstances."

"Unfortunate," Dean nodded slowly, "Yep, definitely unfortunate, cannot possibly disagree with you there."

"But now that you are here, we can clear that up," Bobby nodded sagely, "Because you were our friend before you were our god, and it gives us great comfort and happiness to see you again."

"I'm so excited, and I just can't hide it," Sam sang, twirling a finger in the air and wiggling his hips, "I'm about to lose control and I think I like it..."

Castiel gave him a strange look, then smiled again. "Thank you, Sam," he murmured, "There has been a certain amount of hymn-singing, but nobody has done a dance unto me before. I am... honoured by your gesture of joyful worship."

"Yes, well, we're glad you like it," Dean told him, "Because quotes are, unfortunately, all he can come up with since..."

"Since that unfortunate incident with the wall," Bobby cut him off, elbowing him.

"Although, we quite like it, really," said Dean airily, sarcasm dripping from every word, "I'm thinking of having him painted yellow and black and changing his name to Bumblebee."

"I will gouge out your eyeballs and skull-fuck you..." Sam hissed at Dean under his breath.

Castiel gave Sam another hard look, and his expression became... sheepish.

"It is... regrettable that such an unfortunate incident occurred," he said finally, waving a hand at Sam.

"... Because you are a total jerk, Dean, and if you weren't my brother..." he stuttered to a halt.

Bobby's eyebrows shot up. "Has Chuck written a movie script for his 'Supernatural' books?" he asked, looking suspicious.

"I don't know," replied Dean, eyeing his brother cautiously. "Say something only you would say, Sam."

"Sam looked nonplussed. "You're a jerk, you drink too much, you have an unnatural relationship with your car, and you are emotionally constipated," he pronounced. "Hey!" he went on in amazement, "I'm not talking in quotes any more! The wall must be fixed!"

"Good! That's good!" Dean practically sagged with relief. "And about time, too."

"Thank you, O Castiel, for granting this boy, uh, renovation," intoned Bobby. "Amen."

"Amen," chorused the Winchesters.

"It is my pleasure," said Castiel. With a small sigh he sat down on the sofa.

"How have you been, your godness?" asked Bobby solicitously. "How are the divine revelations working out?"

Castiel's expression was slightly pained. "They have been more... complicated than I had anticipated," he replied finally. "Humanity has been more... confusing than I had anticipated."

"Humans will do that," Bobby nodded sympathetically. "Aint no animal on the planet more confusin' than human beings."

Castiel sat silently looking at his hands for a moment.

"I don't understand," he burst out in exasperation, "I first appeared at a place that people deem holy and explained that I was their god now, and they... they asked the strangest questions. I manifested from thin air before them, six feet off the ground, and they would not believe me!"

"It's the electronic age," Sam shook his head sadly, "People don't believe something until they see it on the TV, or it turns up as an internet meme."

"And then, they got it into their heads that drinking contaminated water was somehow holy!" the upgraded angel went on in bewilderment. "It wasn't even from the spring they thought of as holy, it was from a garden hose! Even after I told them, they kept drinking it! Even now, when it makes them sick, they still drink it!"

"They can be stubborn that way," Dean nodded, "They get hold of some idea, and no matter how much proof to the contrary you show them, they just will not let it go. They're like limpets on a rock, like pitbulls on a crippled grandmother, like social workers on a child..."

"I healed lepers in India," Castiel related plaintively, "And when they regained their feet and legs and arms, they used their walking sticks to hit each other, because of some were born into different castes, a thing over which they have absolutely no control. At least when they were missing limbs they could not assault each other..."

"Some prejudices run so deep, they're beyond reasoning and rationale," consoled Bobby.

"I tried to put things in writing, systematically," Castiel almost wailed, "And all people can do is ask for clarification of ever more obscure and unlikely scenarios! I do believe," his face hardened momentarily, "That if I hear the phrase 'Yeah, but...' one more time, I may in fact smite the offender."

"Doesn't that just drive you nuts when people get like that?" sympathised Dean. "Pick, pick, pick, always looking for loopholes."

"_Homo sapiens_ is the only species that ever invented lawyers," nodded Sam sagely. "Or needed to."

"They are never satisfied," bemoaned the new god, "The things they pray for, the endless list! Everything from 'world peace' and 'global harmony', which is never going to happen while the lepers keep hitting each other – what am I supposed to do, infect the entire planet with leprosy until their arms fall off? – to the trivial, the ridiculous, the impossible and the bewildering! A larger bank balance! The declaration of cabbage as a chemical munition! A 'flying broomstick like Harry's'! Smaller hips, larger breasts, and longer legs! Oh, and the smiting requests, everything from 'Turn the man next door to turn into a weasel' to 'Wipe the country next to us off the map'! X-ray vision to look at a classmate's undergarments to see what colour they are!"

"X-ray vision to look at a girl's panties?" Sam looked astonished. "Who the hell prays for x-ray vision to look at a girl's panties?"

"A schoolboy in Idaho," Castiel replied. "I was... flabbergasted. I do not believe that any American schoolboy has ever prayed for such a gift before."

Their attention was on Castiel, so nobody noticed Dean's face colour slightly.

"That's humans for you," Bobby stated, "Give 'em an inch, and they'll take a mile. There's a reason that Greed and Envy had to be declared Deadly Sins."

"It's all so much... harder than I thought it would be," Castiel sighed reluctantly. "Humans are so difficult to understand. One of the most frequent requests makes absolutely no sense; surely, having it much longer than how it has evolved would make walking comfortably difficult, not to say the discomfort it might cause a sexual partner..."

"Had you considered, maybe, stepping back a bit, leaving people to sort out their own problems, you know, be more self-reliant?" suggested Sam carefully. "That is, uh, a tried and true approach to the whole, you know, godding job."

"But I'm a better god!" Castiel said emphatically, "I am there for my people, I want to help! I want to be there for them, not like... not like..." he stumbled to silence.

"Givin' people what they want for no effort isn't always helpin'," Bobby pointed out gently. "Sam might have a point; maybe steppin' back a bit would be good for everybody. Including you."

"But.. but... how will they know that I'm there if I don't show myself?" asked Castiel, sounding decidedly ungodlike.

"They'll just have to have faith, won't they?" Bobby told him briskly. "What sort of believers are they if they don't believe?"

"Is it fair to expect them to believe?" demanded Castiel. "And never show myself? I believe that they deserve to know that their god is there. I believe that I am doing the right thing. I believe..."

The quiet of the living room was broken by a truly epic gurgling, rumbling, grinding sound, like an earthquake gargling treacle. The sofas on which they sat vibrated with the noise.

Castiel clutched at his midriff. "I believe... that I am going to be sick."

* * *

Imagine somebody you can't stand. It could be a workmate, it could be a reality TV 'star', it could be a 'celebrity' who's famous just for being famous, it could be a member of your family, it could be a Canadian singer. Now, imagine that person... being turned into a weasel.

Reviews will make the people you can't stand turn into weasels!

Maybe.

Or you can imagine a Winchester serving you biscuits wearing the apron. Incidentally, the recipe for Dean's chokky chip bikkies can be found in the last chapter of my story 'Hot Stuff'. BE WARNED: they are ADDICTIVE.


	6. Chapter 5

**CHAPTER FIVE**

There was a moment of horrified silence, in which only the further bubbling of a bewildering burst of borborygmi echoed ominously.

Castiel winced, his face looking slightly green. "I don't understand," he grated out through gritted teeth, "I feel... terrible."

"Castiel," began Bobby carefully, "When you say 'be sick', do you mean, you may be coming down with some disease, or..."

"I mean that I believe I am going to throw up, puke, barf, heave, upchuck, spew, hurl, blow chunks, toss my cookies, or my tacos, feed the fish, empty the carrot reserve, get down and get chunky, make a call on the big white phone, drive the porcelain bus to Woof City, or call for my long lost brother Ralph," clarified Castiel with another wince. "At least, those are terms that I have heard Dean use to describe the action I believe my vessel is preparing to take. Although, I would prefer not to speak of it; just using the words is making the feeling worse..."

"Castiel, this is very important," Sam said, "Have you, in your vessel, eaten anything since... since your elevation to godhood?"

Castiel gingerly shook his head. "I have not," he confirmed. He turned miserable eyes to them. "I feel truly dreadful."

"Okaaaaaay," Dean said calmly, in the same tone as a bomb defusing expert who's been working on a device that has just started to beep with an increasing tempo and in a rising tone, "Cas, listen to me. This is probably all those souls that you took in when Purgatory opened."

"But..." Castiel's face bore the confusion and disappointment of a child who has just been told that the Easter Bunny isn't real – before the eggs have been delivered. "I don't understand. I am the new, better god..."

"You started off as an angel, though," Dean reminded him, "And you as an angel, and your vessel, were never intended to contain that much occult... oomph. This is the result.

Castiel nodded gingerly. "Yes," he ventured, "I believe that the word 'oomph' is surprisingly appropriate for what I am feeling."

"There may be a complicating factor here," Sam added. "Cas, were you aware that things called 'Leviathans' were imprisoned in Purgatory?"

The new, better god's slightly green face flushed with the deer-in-the-headlights expression of a child caught with both hands in the cookie jar, one foot wrapped around Mommy's special secret stash of Belgian chocolate and the packet of jerky Daddy was saving for later stashed down his pants. "They are... powerful creatures," he ventured.

"Yes, yes they are," Dean nodded, "Powerful, nasty creatures. Powerful, nasty, bloodthirsty not-nice creatures." Castiel's midriff gurgled ominously again. "And they appear to be getting restless."

"There is nothing to fear," Castiel smiled shakily, "I am perfectly capable of containing and harnessing the Purgatory souls and the Leviathans. I am turning their abomination to good ends!"

"Oh, dear," sighed Sam, "Been there, done that. It all ends in tears in the panic room, Cas."

"This time it will not," Castiel said with more conviction than his expression conveyed. "I assure you, I am in complete control... _urrrrrrrrrrrp_!"

A burp that Dean might, under less dire circumstances, have given at least seven out of ten issued from Castiel's astonished face. A small grey cloud of vapour emerged; in the smoky wisps there formed a face, looking just as astonished as the angel. It had a snout, and pointy ears, and let out a startled yelp.

Bobby deftly grabbed a small spray bottle from a bookshelf, and gave it a squirt. It dissolved with another small yip.

"Colloidal silver," he announced, waving the bottle, "Useless as a non-conventional medical therapy, but works like mace on werewolves. And that, friends and neighbours, was a werewolf soul making a break for it."

"I apologise, Bobby," mumbled Castiel, "It appears to have escaped as a result of the... discomfort I am currently experienciiiii_urrrrrrrp_!"

Another grey wisp issued from Castiel's mouth, assuming a surprised-looking rudimentary visage. It bared a mouthful of smoky fangs; Sam picked up the butter knife, and drew it smartly through the middle of the cloud.

"Vampire," he announced, watching the small cloud dissolve. "Decapitation works."

"This is most... embarrassing," muttered Castiel, "I apologise for this temporary disruption to my omnipotence... _uuurrrrrrp!_"

"Changeling," noted Dean, pulling a lighter from a pocket and using it to deal with the small astonished cloud.

"Oh dear," Castiel murmured, his face going from green to white, "I do apologise, I believe that I am now about to be..."

Dean was a veteran assessor of _that_ look. From the age of four, he had been watching his Sammy closely, and had seen every cause of abrupt (and occasionally projectile) illness play out in his little brother: the bottle drained too quickly and greedily by a hungry baby, one too many snails tasted by a curious toddler, the ingestion of a whole basket of eggs gathered at a pre-school Easter hunt, the colourful yet inevitable result of a candy floss overdose at a carnival, the aftermath of a school banana-eating contest, the completely predictable progress of the first hangover, and many after that one, Dean was intimately familiar with the sequence of events. The vaguely bemused look, the slightly worried sounding apology for what was about to transpire, the slight sheen of sweat, the sudden pallor, the deepening, quickening breathing, and finally the wince and the hitching, hiccuping gasps that presaged the onset of an emergency evacuation (one exit, no waiting)...

So he'd dashed into the kitchen and grabbed a bucket and shoved it under Castiel before the gastrointestinally inconvenienced angel even realised what was happening.

"Oh, that's just... " Sam couldn't come up with a word adequate to describe his revulsion at the... _stuff_ that splattered into the bucket.

"Go get some tissues," Dean instructed, "And some towels." Sam scrambled to obey as Bobby reluctantly peered at the grey, mushy... _stuff._ He grabbed for a flask of holy water, and gave a generous slosh into the bucket. A dozen small, bewildered pairs of eyes appeared, and glared accusingly up at him from its depths.

"That'll hold 'em for now," Bobby commented, "But we gotta dispose of 'em properly, and that means putting 'em back where they came from."

"I am sorry to impose upon you like this, Bobby," Castiel quavered, "As soon as I have re-established my... equilibrium, I shall..."

Bobby put a hand on Castiel's shoulder. "Son," he said gently, "I may technically be younger than you, but right now, I'm goin' to give you some advice. When you find yourself in a hole, the first thing you gotta do, the very first thing, is stop diggin'."

"This is wrong, Cas," Dean told him, "And it's making you sick. It has to end. We have to put these things back in Purgatory, before they really hurt you, or before they get out and start wreaking havoc."

Castiel closed his eyes and looked defeated. "I want to be a better god," he moaned sadly. "I want to be there. I want to help. I want to fix things. I want to... be sick again." He hunched over the bucket once more, parting company with a larger volume of... _stuff_ than the first time.

"Tissues," announced Sam without preamble, shoving the box into Dean's hands. Dean gave Castiel one to wipe his mouth with.

"We gotta shove those things back into Purgatory," Bobby announced, "We gotta open it up, and shove 'em back in."

"But... how?" asked Sam, bewildered. "We need an eclipse, and we need the right blood..."

Slowly, as if he was afraid that moving too fast might set him heaving again, Castiel put a hand into his coat pocket, and pulled out a jar of dark liquid. "I have it with me," he told them quietly. "I was keeping it with me, to make sure that Crowley didn't get hold of it and do anythiiiiiiiin_ghrgrglrhglrhglaaaaaaaargh!_"

"You think too literally, Sam," Bobby told him with a grimace, noticing how full the bucket was getting. "It's the symbolism that's important. That, and we're desperate. Desperate enough to make it work."

"How?" demanded Sam, as Dean made soothing noises to the gurgling angel.

Bobby looked thoughtful. "If we can get him as far as the bathroom, I believe I know how," he said grimly.

"What do you think, Cas?" asked Dean, proffering another tissue. "Can you make it as far as the bathroom."

"Yes," affirmed the queasy-looking angel, "However, I cannot promise that I can get there without needing to throw up again."

"Well, we gotta risk it," instructed Bobby.

It was a strange and carefully shuffling procession, with Castiel holding his bucket, Dean and Sam holding up Castiel, and Bobby making frantic preparations ahead of them. When they finally made it up the stairs, with a pause for further purging that left the bucket dangerously full, he was ready to proceed. He told them what he needed.

"What?" Sam blinked in disbelief. "You can_not_ be serious!"

"Look into my eye, boy," growled Bobby.

"How can you_ possibly_ think that will work?" Sam demanded.

"Symbolism!" Bobby snapped. "That's what it's all about, ya idjit! Symbolism! That, and the fact that the one thing we know, the _one single thing_ we _absolutely know_ about the Big Guy who designed the whole shebang, is that God has a sense of humour!"

"It's true," mumbled Castiel, from where Dean had him propped against the wall. "My oldest brothers often told stories of how Father has such a sense of humour, He made Uriel look like a Puritan preacher. And Uriel was the funniest angel in the garrison."

"So, you stop your complainin'," Bobby went on, "I need your brother here to help Cas, and I gotta read the ritual, so unless you got a better idea, you get up there and do what needs to be done to fix this clusterfuck!"

"Uh, guys," interjected Dean in the worried voice of the bomb tech who's seriously considering just dropping the wire cutters and running as fast as possible in any direction, "I think we might need to hurry here..." Castiel's face was screwing up in what was clearly the prelude to another voluminous vomit. "They've been getting more... voluminous with each, er, discharge, and the last one filled at least half the bucket..."

"_Now,_ Sam," directed Bobby in a tone that brooked no argument. With a put-upon sigh, the younger Winchester did as he was told, trying to console himself with the idea that in five years they would look back and laugh at this, whilst knowing that in reality, once the seriousness of the situation had abated, Dean would never let him hear the end of it.

Symbolism. Symbolism and God's sense of humour. It was an awfully thin premise on which to hang the casting of a spell that could be instrumental to the fate of humanity. He could only hope that Bobby's usual knack for This Sort Of Thing was on the money in this instance.

The opening of a gateway to Purgatory required the reading of a rite, over particular symbols and sigils marked in a mix of the blood of a virgin mixed with the blood of a native of Purgatory, during an eclipse. An eclipse, that strange state of not quite day but not quite night, a fleeting half-way state, teetering between day and night as Purgatory does between Heaven and Hell, being when a full moon blocks the light of the sun...

Sam climbed up onto the vanity, blocking the sunlight and casting the bathroom into shadow. Dean held a slumping Castiel over the toilet, of which the bowl, rim and cistern had been carefully inscribed with the blood mixture.

Sam turned his back to the small bathroom window, sighed, and dropped his pants.

And as the full moon blocked out the light of the sun, Bobby began to read.

* * *

I have no excuses, except sleep deprivation and too many red sweeties. And it's going to get worse. Much worse.

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Mooning In The Bathroom Of Life!


	7. Chapter 6

**Sam:** Hey!

**Lampito:** Le sigh. What now, giant fluffy emo?

**Sam:** I am _not_ serving cookies wearing just this apron!

**Lampito:** Look, as long as you keep your back to the wall and your knees together you'll be fine...

**Sam:** Fix it! And DON'T do the Dean thing, I do NOT want to lose the apron, and be left with nothing but oven gloves!

**Lampito:** Oh, all right.

*the eebil fickriter taps at keys*

**Sam:** AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGH! *runs away*

**Dean (runs past again):** AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRGH!

**Bobby:** Correct me if I'm wrong, but did I just see Dean run past wearin' nothin' but oven gloves, and Sam with nothin' but...

**Lampito:** A tray. Silver. Antique. With faux filigree chasing.

**Bobby:** Oh.

**Winchesters (run past back the other way):** AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRGH!

**Bobby:** Some pretty impressive workmanship.

**Winchesters (run back past back the other way again):** AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRGH!

**Bobby (frowning thoughtfully):** You don't see definition like that every day.

**Lampito:** That's what he said.

* * *

...And could I just be clear that the bathroom window at Bobby's is small and made of frosted glass, so the Widow Witherspoon will not be seeing anything salacious through the binoculars.

* * *

**CHAPTER SIX**

_This had better work, _Sam thought to himself,_ this had better work, because if it doesn't, those Leviathan things are going to get out, and they're going to kill or farm everybody, and we'll be the first to die, and I refuse to die with my pants around my ankles, if any Winchester is going to die with his pants around his ankles it can be Dean, pants around his ankles, a satisfied lady beneath him and a beautiful smile on his face..._

A sickly orange glow began to pulse weakly as the water began to slosh gently. As Bobby read the rite, the light became brighter, casting an eerie illumination over the worried features of Dean and the green features of Castiel.

"It's working!" yelled Dean, holding up Castiel's head as the angel began to gasp and retch. There was a final sizzle in the air, a tearing in the fabric of the space-time continuum between dimensions, and a hot, swirling, unnatural rift between the mortal realm and the appointed eternal prison of those things abominable unto God opened.

In Bobby's upstairs toilet.

Just in time.

Castiel sprawled in an ungainly fashion, leaned over the bowl, and called for his long lost brother named Ralph. Or, more correctly, _Raaaaaaa-aaaaaaa-aaaaaaa-aaaaaaa-aaaaaaa-lph._

"There ya go," Dean muttered, making soothing noises and patting the angel on the back as Castiel leaned his face against the toilet bowl, patted it, and apparently thanked it. "Does that feel better?"

"No," choked Castiel, giving up to The Firehose Within once more.

"Oh, gross," Sam screwed up his nose as he straightened, pulled up and fastened his pants, then jumped down from the vanity. "Uh, I think we'd better..." he grabbed for the flush handle, and the contents of the bowl swirled away into Purgatory with a chorus of thin wailing screams and howls.

"Don't fight it, Cas," advised Bobby, tipping the bucket's contents in and flushing that too, "The sooner they're all out the better."

"So, just keep thinking, you know, purgatory thoughts," encouraged Dean, patting gently, "Think purgatory thoughts about Purgatory monsters! Ha ha ha!"

"Dean?" said Castiel, gazing at him with miserable blue eyes.

"Yeah, Cas?"

"Uriel was funnier than yooooo_obrlaaaaaaaaaaaaarg..._"

"Whoa, hang on, just... " Dean sighed, and grabbed a stray hank of Castiel's hair out of the firing line. "It's supposed to be girls who do this for each other," he griped, "It was bad enough that I've had to do it for Sam..."

"Hey!" protested Sam.

"Shaddap ya idjits," ordered Bobby, "And keep flushin'."

It seemed to go on for a long time: Castiel continued to bring up the strange, grey... _stuff _that was the souls he'd taken from Purgatory, Dean kept up the encouraging noises and general there-thereing, and Bobby and Sam monitored the gateway, proffered the odd damp washcloth, and kept flushing.

"He's like a TARDIS," mused Sam, "A TARDIS full of puke, able to hold way more puke on the inside than you'd possibly ever think the physical form on the outside. Time And Relative Disgorgement In Space."

"A property you also displayed as a carsick toddler," commented Dean, "Although at least we didn't have to down trou and do this every time you felt sick."

After a while, the endless gush of grey... _stuff _seemed to slow down a bit, then the intervals between emetic episodes became longer, and finally came dribbling to a halt.

"Is that it?" asked Dean cautiously.

"I believe that last bout may have included some of my vessel's internal organs," sighed Castiel, his voice sounding even more gravelly than usual. "And possibly also my will to exist."

"Always a good sign that a bout of puking is comin' to an end," Bobby smiled, "When you find yourself wantin' to jump in and flush away with the rest of it, you're getting to the bottom of the tank."

Castiel still looked terrible, but marginally less terrible than he had looked whilst being sick. "I am..." he began, seemingly at a loss for words. "... Sorry." He cocked his head, looking like their nerd in a trench coat again. "That single word does not seem adequate to apologise for... everything."

"It's a start, son," Bobby grinned wryly.

Castiel slumped against the wall. "I am..." he ran out of vocab again. "I have... I have been very foolish."

"Again, a reasonable start," Bobby nodded.

Castiel turned on an expression similar to the one that Jimi had worn as a puppy when he had been caught out eating something, doing something or crapping somewhere he shouldn't. "I have been... a very bad angel," he said finally, in a small and miserable voice. "I have done terrible things, in sin. I am guilty of Pride, Anger, Envy. And possibly also of Gluttony, if ingestion of souls counts." He turned sad eyes to Sam. "I am so sorry, Sam, for putting a hole in your wall. I have no idea how I can possibly make amends for my appalling behaviour. And Dean, your car, the item that is dearest to you after your brother, wrecked, on my account." He waved a hand distractedly. "I apologise to Baby."

"That's... okay, Cas," Dean said with a small smile. "At least you realise that what you've been doing is wrong."

"A lot of people never get that far, let alone admit it and try to apologise for it," commented Sam.

"And you apologised to my car," Dean added, "That right there gets you some brownie points."

Castiel didn't appear to hear him; he let out a small sigh. "My Father would be so disappointed with me. I have let Him down so badly."

"Weeeeeeeell," hummed Bobby, "I'm not gonna attempt to fathom the inscrutable workings of The Almighty's mind, but a lot of folks agree that He's pretty big on the whole forgiveness thing, in the face of genuine contrition."

"But... I'm an angel!" Castiel burst out. "I should have known better!"

"Yep, you should have," Bobby agreed, "And now you've remembered it. Well done you."

Castiel looked lost. "What do I do now?" he asked plaintively. "As a result of my actions, Heaven is in chaos, the Host are in disarray..."

"Fix it," Dean supplied promptly. "You want to make amends? Fine. You fix it. You made the mess, you clear it up."

Castiel looked bewildered. "I would not even know where to start," he ventured.

"Well, you gotta identify the major issues, and prioritise," Sam began, going into problem-solving mode. "You work out what's most important, and tackle that first. Maybe you can think about what your Father would do."

The angel's brow furrowed in thought. "The Archives will be badly backlogged and disorganised," he mused, "And Heaven's weapons must be secured..."

"Well, there you go," Sam told him, "You make a start on those, and then, you, well, go from there."

Castiel sat up straight, then stiffly climbed to his feet, his 'I am an Angel of the Lord, a Warrior of Heaven' demeanour sliding into place. "You are right. I shall do my best to restore order, until such time as my Father returns." He gave Dean what the Winchesters privately referred to as Castiel's Patented Eye-Sex Stare Of Doom. "Thank you, Dean," he intoned, "And thank you Bobby and Sam, for your assistance and understanding with... everything."

"Just... don't do it again, Feathers," Bobby rolled his eyes, "Ya idjit."

"I promise that I will not," Castiel said firmly. "I shall consider my conduct every day, as I ask my Father for forgiveness and guidance, and I sha-" his voice cut off as he let out a gasp.

"Cas?" asked Dean, worried, "Cas, are you all right?"

"I am not certain," Castiel replied, wincing again, "It is possible that I may be experiencing some after effects of my... AAAAH!" Once more he clutched at his midriff.

An ominous gurgling sounded once more, echoing threateningly around the small room.

"Cas," frowned Bobby, checking the swirling septic connection to Purgatory, "Are you going to throw up again?"

"I do not feel like I am going to be sick," said Castiel, "However..."

The gurgling sounded again, louder, deeper, darker. And...

Lower down.

Castiel's expression was unreadable. "I believe that I am yet to be... completely purged."

Dean's expression was easily recognisable as a textbook definition of horror. "Oh. My. God," he managed. "Are you telling me that you're... and they're... and you're gonna..."

"Not vomit," Cas confirmed, "But peristaltic activity of the gastrointestinal tract will definitely be involved."

"The Volcano Special burritos," realised Bobby in horrified realisation. "Son, are you tellin' us that you've got more souls in there, yet to, er, make their exit?"

Castiel cocked his head. "I do not believe there are any... souls left," he replied finally.

"Er, guys," Sam began, his face draining of colour. "Just a theory here, but... say there was a dimension, maybe called Purgatory, that was home to a whole bunch of corrupted souls, and also to some really nasty fuglies called Leviathans, say they were all trapped in this dimension, maybe waiting for a chance to get out, and say that one day, a hole opened up between Purgatory and physical reality, and say that all those souls and the Leviathans all wanted to get out. Say it was likely that the biggest baddest fuglies, these Leviathans, would get out first, shoving all the other souls out of the way so they could be first out... now, say there's an angel on the other side of the gateway, 'ingesting' what comes out, so, say they'd be first out so they'd be first ingested. Then say a whole bunch of those lesser souls piled in on top of them, and say they had to go somewhere to make room... say the containment within the angel and his vessel started to fail, and say that the Leviathans had been further 'ingested' than the souls when that happened... say the souls all came back out the way they went in, but... say the Leviathans were moved along closer to an, uh, alternative exit..."

"They stampeded through the house first, so they're closer to the back door than the way they came in," breathed Bobby. "God's tits."

_GROWRM PBLOOB LOOLOOB BLOOPLOOB BLOOOP GLOOBLOOB_

Castiel winced again, but remained upright. "I would prefer that you all leave now", he said gravely.

"Cas," Dean rasped, "You can't be here by yourself when..."

"Dean," Cas said firmly, "You the once told me, in no uncertain terms, that 'The last thing a guy wants is another guy eye-sexing him while he's on the can, Cas! Except maybe for Special Me Time, or Special Cuddles, but he TOTALLY does NOT want an Angel of the Lord materialising practically in his lap when he is communing with the gods of the water closet! Personal space, dude!'."

"Come on, bro," Sam put a hand on Dean's shoulder. "Cas doesn't want us in the bathroom while he... takes care of business."

Dean nodded reluctantly. "Okay," he agreed, "But we'll be right outside the door..."

"You will not. I do not want you in the house while I take care of business," stipulated Castiel.

**_PBLOOB BLOOLOOPL BLOOBGLMPLOOB BLOOOP_**

"Come on, boys," Bobby said gruffly, "He's an Angel of the Lord, he knows what he's up against."

"I do," nodded Castiel. "My mess to clean up." Carefully, he removed his coat, and handed it to Dean. "Please hold this for me, Dean," he asked, in the same tone that Captain Lawrence 'Titus' Oates probably used in Antarctica in 1912 when casually announcing that he was just stepping out for some fresh air, and his colleagues should not wait up.

Numbly, Dean took the coat. "I'll... hang on to it for you," he managed.

"Thank you." Castiel winced once more. "Now, please leave."

Bobby steered the Winchesters out. "There's spare rolls in the cupboard under the vanity," he choked out as they left. Castiel nodded, and closed the door behind them.

Of course, Dean wouldn't go. Despite Bobby and Sam's increasingly frantic insistence, despite the severity of the groans, gurgles, shrieks and other eldritch noises that accompanied the Leviathans being excreted and flushed back to Purgatory, he paced in concern up and down the hallway outside the bathroom.

When the deep, almost subsonic rumbling began, he knocked on the door, only to be answered with more groans, more howls, the rattle of the toilet paper holder and the sounds of flushing. As the rumbling grew louder and the house began to shake, he pounded on the door, yelling at Cas, until, as the red glow under the door began to grow brighter, and the rumbling rose to a roar, Sam grabbed him and threw him into a fireman's carry, following Bobby down the stairs and out the door and into the yard at a run, not stopping until they reached a distant bank of derelict truck bodies behind which they dived to take shelter...

"He's still in there!" was as far as Dean got before the house blew up.

* * *

...And that, dear Denizens, is how Singer Salvage got blowed up in the Jimiverse. Your kind encouragement prompted the bunny!

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Patting You Soothingly On The Back While You Throw Up In The Bathroom Of Life!


	8. Chapter 7

I hope everybody had a reasonably good Holy Pie Thursday. The Church of Castiel is nothing if not realistic, and recognises that it is not always possible to consume pie on Holy Pie Thursday. Wherever actual worship of pie is not feasible, it is just as acceptable to think admiringly about pie, perhaps offering up a brief thought of "I'd really like a piece of apricot pie just now", or "What a shame I don't have a piece of apple and blackberry pie to go with my coffee" or "It's a shame I can't eat pie for breakfast".

* * *

**CHAPTER SEVEN**

Pieces of roof tile, chunks of timber and a couple of unlucky pigeons rained down as the sound of the explosion died away. Warily, three heads poked out from behind a rusted truck.

"Balls," pronounced Bobby.

"Is that it?" queried Sam, watching in bemused disbelief as pieces of paper, fabric and the occasional shred of curtain drifted down more slowly. Jimi crawled out from under the junker where he'd taken shelter with his mother Rumsfeld and his sister Janis, and they began nosing back and forth across the scene.

Dean peered into the clearing cloud of dust and smoke. "Cas!" he called, clutching the coat he held anxiously, "Cas! Where the hell are you?"

"What the hell happened?" asked Sam in a bewildered tone.

"I guess the Leviathans put up a bit of a fight," Bobby grinned a little. "It aint bad enough you go rippin' holes in the fabric of reality, you go shovin' enormously powerful beings through it when they don't want to go, something like that is bound to create fireworks."

"You think he got them all back into Purgatory?" Sam went on. "All locked up again?"

"He closed the gateway," Bobby nodded, "He closed it, because if he hadn't, we would right now be knee-deep in escaping souls, and hungry angry not-nice Leviathans." He peered at the ground, bent down, and picked up his large, pointy red hat. It was splattered with dirt, and a little singed on one edge, but otherwise intact. "Well, whaddyaknow," he mused with a small smile, "It must be the willow reinforcement. I'll have to ask the Librarian to pass on my compliments to Mr Vernissage..." He looked thoughtful then reached inside it, and pulled out a small flask from inside the point. He opened it, sniffed, smiled widely and took a drink. "Ah, good ol' Mustrum, scumble from his home town..."

"Cas!" Dean continued to yell, "CAS! Come on, this isn't funny! Get your feathery ass back here now!"

"So... where is he?" asked Sam in a small voice.

They watched as Jimi scrabbled briefly at a pile of rubble, then extracted Oinker Stoinker the blue squeaky pig. He trotted around honking triumphantly. Bobby sighed. "I don't know, son. I want to hope that we'll find him upside down in the shrubbery, but the whole godding episode was taking a toll on him..."

"Come on, Cas!" demanded Dean, glaring at the sky, "Guys like you don't die on toilets!"

Sam looked confused. "You haven't got some quote thing happening in that strange brain of yours now, have you?" he asked his brother. Dean just glared at him.

Carefully, they began to pick through the damaged house, salvaging what they could. Bobby's antique porcelain teapot with the reproduction erotic Greek frieze motif had miraculously survived. A plate of cookies survived unscathed under an upturned bowl and a torn dishcloth. Beside it, a turquoise ceramic lamp base had crazed, and disintegrated when Sam touched it.

"Karen made that," Bobby noted, "In one of them crafts classes she liked to go and do."

Sam's face fell all the way to Kicked Puppy. "Oh, God, Bobby, I'm so sorry..."

"And I hated the damned thing from the moment she brought it home," Bobby continued, giving the pile of fragments a small satisifed kick, "Ugly as hell, and lopsided. I been lookin' for an excuse to get rid of it ever since. I guess every cloud has a silver lining."

Sam goggled at him. "Er, well, optimism is an admirable trait, but was it really worth having your house blow up just to get rid of a lamp?"

"It was a powerful ugly lamp," shrugged Bobby. "Aha! Now, this is important!" He pulled a peaked cap from a pile, and dusted it off. "Keep an eye out for any more of these. That goes for you too, Dean. Dean?"

Bobby and Sam turned to see Dean standing with his back to them, just staring at something.

"What is it, son?" asked Bobby. Dean remained silent. As they joined him, they could see what he was staring at.

In a small clearing in the debris sat the upstairs toilet bowl. It was cracked, it was scorched, and it was definitely unoccupied.

It was slow going, but they were able to make their way gingerly up what was left of the stairs. The upper storey was wrecked, walls blown out, ceilings collapsed. The bathroom had been the epicentre; the only indication that it had once been a bathroom was an empty toilet roll core. There was no sign of Castiel.

"Balls," muttered Bobby sadly.

"Come on," Sam said, gently putting a hand on Dean's shoulder as his big brother stared at the small cardboard cylinder with tear-filled eyes. "Somebody is bound to have heard that. The Widow Witherspoon is a terrible stickybeak, and she'll be notifying the Sheriff, the Fire Brigade, the SPCA, the Mayor, the anti-terrorism hotline, the local paper and Oprah as we speak. We gotta get out there and look like traumatised civilians." Looking at Dean, Sam decided that his brother wouldn't need to act very hard.

They made their way back to clear ground to wait for the inevitable arrival of emergency services. Dean sat on the ground, still clutching the trench coat and the cardboard roll, as Jimi nudged him, and honked consolingly on Oinker Stoinker.

"At least we got transport," Sam pointed to the Impala, which sat, miraculously restored to her pre-wreck glory, outside the blast radius. "He fixed your car for you."

"He fixed my car," Dean repeated hollowly, hugging the toilet roll centre to his chest, "He fixed my car, and let himself get blown up."

"The idjit clearly spent too much time hangin' around with disreputable company," Bobby joked weakly, with a surreptitious sniff, "And picked up bad habits, such as a lunatic disregard for his own wellbein'. Wonder who he learned that from."

"It's... " Dean gulped. "It's not fair."

"It never is," Sam sat next to his brother, and put a brotherly arm around his shoulder. "In this job, it never is."

"Yeah, he was a dick, but he learned how not to be a dick," Dean stated. "Unlike all those other dicks, who were totally dicks."

"He sure did," Sam agreed. "He learned how to totally not be a dick."

"And he screwed up, but he just wanted to help," Dean went on, bottom lip trembling.

"Who hasn't?" Sam added.

"And he never learned about Personal Space," lamented Dean. "He was so determined to learn about Personal Space."

"He never stopped trying," smiled Sam. "I thought it was kind of... endearing."

"He should've eaten more pie, Sam!" Dean wailed, "I should've shown him more about pie! Made sure that he really _experienced_ the joy of pie! Why didn't I get him to eat more pie? How could I let him go without making sure he knew all about pie!"

"I think he understood, Dean," Sam consoled, talking around the lump forming in his own throat, "I think he knew that you, as his friend, wanted to share important things with him."

"And... and... and... he never got laid!" A single tear made its way down Dean's face. "He died a virgin! I never got him laid! What sort of a friend does that, Sam? What sort of a friend lets somebody die without even making sure they get to do the horizontal tango at least once?" He took a deep, shuddering breath. "And now every time I see a toilet, I'll be reminded of what a terrible friend I was to him!"

"That was his choice, Dean," Sam tried to comfort his distressed big brother, "Remember, the whole Free Will thing? By deciding not to get laid, he made a choice, he exercised free will. He learned that from you. You were the one that convinced him, showed him that it was okay to think, okay to doubt, and okay to say no, and not do something just because it's what somebody else wanted. And what he learned from you was more important to him than sex, Dean! More important than sex! That's how _awesome_ a friend you were to Cas."

Dean drew a shaky breath, and for a moment Sam wondered if Dean was getting close to breaking the 'no chick-flick moments' rule when they all heard a strange, distant noise.

_aaaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaaa_

Bobby looked around. "What the hell is that?"

_aaaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaaa_

The Winchesters stood. "Is it a siren?" wondered Sam.

_aaaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaaa-aaaaaaaaaaaa_

"Where's it coming from?" asked Dean.

_AAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAA_

Jimi woofed cheerfully, and turned his muzzle to the sky. They all looked up.

_AAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAA_

"Y'know, takin' a few steps back might be a real good idea just about now," announced Bobby, doing so. The Winchesters followed suit.

_**AAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAA**_

With a whistle of wind and a flailing of limbs, a tangled form dropped from the air with the aerodynamic efficiency of a brick, and fell to the ground between them with a definite thud.

_**AAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAA-AAAAAAAAAAAA...**__ "_Ow."

They gaped in disbelief as the inelegantly sprawled figure slowly, painfully climbed to its feet, attempted to adjust its dishevelled clothing, and regarded them gravely.

"I apologise if my re-entry startled you. Hello Dean. Are you all right?"

* * *

Reviews are the Angel Of Your Choice Falling Out Of The Sky In Onto The Lawn Of Life!


	9. Chapter 8

**CHAPTER EIGHT**

Dean gawped at Castiel as if he'd suddenly just dropped out of the sky. Which was perfectly understandable, since he had.

Sam would later recall his big brother's expression with amusement: it went from devastation to disbelief to glee to annoyance to relief to resignation to denial to anger then back to disbelief, as the urge to grab Castiel in a vise-like manly hug warred with the urge to punch him in the face for giving them all such a fright. It was like watching half a dozen hamsters fighting inside a Dean mask. It was like watching a toddler who'd been asked to choose only one out of too many types of candy. If Dean was a computer, he'd have been showing a dialog box reading 'IT LOOKS LIKE YOU'VE JUST FOUND YOUR FRIEND WHOM YOU THOUGHT WAS DEAD. DO YOU WANT TO: [BURST INTO TEARS] [BEAT THE CRAP OUT OF HIM] [SHOOT SOMETHING]?, and probably have smoke pouring out of every port.

"Holy shit and Satan's toilet tissue, boy," breathed Bobby, "What the fuck happened to you? We thought you'd been reduced to a smear round the S-bend."

"I apologise for causing you concern," Castiel replied with his usual gravelly gravity, "The Leviathans were... more powerful than I had realised. They were most reluctant to return to Purgatory. I'm afraid I had to exert my grace strenuously to ensure that they were most definitely returned there, and the gateway was locked." He looked back at what was left of the house. "I am sorry about your house, Bobby," the angel looked regretful, "But I deemed it wise to use as much force as I could possibly muster in order to ensure that the Leviathans were returned to Purgatory without risking the escape of one or more."

Sam couldn't stop the smile that bloomed on his face. "Nuke it from orbit; it's the only way to be sure."

Castiel stared hard at him. "I recognise that from a movie that Dean insisted I watch. Has the explosion caused damage to your wall again?" he asked anxiously. "I shall restore it for you immediately..."

"It's okay, Cas, that was me," Sam assured him. "But seriously, what happened to you?"

"I was caught in the recoil from the forcible closure of the doorway to Purgatory," explained the untidy angel. "I'm afraid that the... backlash imparted more altitude than I was anticipating."

Bobby looked philosophical. "Well, the place was well overdue for paintin' inside and out," he shrugged, as the first approaching sirens became audible, "Now I got no excuse not to do a proper job of it."

Castiel shrugged, and his clothing tidied itself. "You kept my coat safe," he said seriously to Dean, who was still clutching the trench coat.

"Meeeeeep," went Dean.

"I am grateful for that," Castiel told him, "It may well have been irretrievably damaged in my confrontation with the Leviathans."

Dean unspeakingly looked down at the coat, then handed it to Castiel. After a moment, he handed over the toilet roll centre too. Castiel accepted both with grave thanks.

"Meeeeeep," went Dean.

"Dean?" Bobby queried gently, "Are you all right, son?"

"Were you injured in the explosion, Dean?" asked Castiel with concern, peering at Dean with the Patented Eye-Sex Stare Of Doom.

"I think he's just had a shock," Sam assured them, clapping Dean on the shoulder, "It was a very loud explosion."

Castiel cocked his head sideways. "That is not surprising," he commented, as the first Sheriff's office car came speeding through the gates. "Perhaps now that the emergency services are arriving, we should ask the paramedics to examine him..."

"Cas," smiled Sam, "I think he's got all the therapy he needs standing right in front of him."

"Cas," Dean finally managed to say something intelligible.

"Yes, Dean?" answered the angel.

"Do not EVER do anything like that again," Dean instructed, with what came perilously close to infringing on the Sam Winchester Bitchface™ brand.

"I will not," Castiel promised.

"Because if you do, I will hunt you down."

"Yes, Dean."

"I will hunt you down, and I will make you sorry."

"Yes, Dean."

"I mean it, Cas, you ever scare the shit out of me like that again, I will hunt you down and kick what's left of your feathery ass until you go 'Ow'."

"Yes, Dean."

"Seriously, you get yourself killed doing something that stupid, I will find a way to bring you back just so I can kill you myself."

"Yes, Dean."

"After I kick your ass."

"Yes, Dean."

"Then I'll bring you back again to kick your ass some more."

"Yes, Dean."

"Yours will not be the first angelic ass I've kicked."

"Yes, Dean."

"I will let you live just long enough to make sure you know all you need to know about pie."

'Yes, Dean."

"Then, it's the ol' kickaroo for you, pal."

"Yes, Dean."

Bobby and Sam spoke to the fire department and the Sheriff's officers, while the paramedics attempted to examine the man who was clearly traumatised since he was agitated and kept gibbering – thankfully, his friend was on had to help keep him calm. Bobby described the strange noises the plumbing had made during the day, the terrible rumbling that presaged the explosion, and their flight from the house just in time. One of the firefighters nodded; it was clearly a case of a malfunction with the sewer system, it had happened before. It would be best for Mr Singer, his dogs, his nephews and their friend to leave, until the area could be examined and determined to be safe from any further noxious or explosive emissions. They would also prepare an incident report, of which Mr Singer would need a copy should he decide to pursue the civic water authority for negligence in the maintenance of its sewage infrastructure.

Bobby thanked them for their efforts, and pulled out his cell to start looking for short term accommodation when the Widow Witherspoon came bustling up the driveway with an expression of horror on her face.

"Oh, your house, Mr Singer!" she wailed, clutching at Bobby's arm, "Your house! Your poor house!"

"It was just the house, Mrs Witherspoon," Bobby patted her hand solicitously, "A house can be rebuilt. Nobody got hurt, that's what's important."

"You nephew, Mr Singer!" she gasped when she saw the paramedics attempting to deal with Dean, "The poor boy!"

"He's just had a bit of a fright, Mrs Witherspoon," Bobby assured her, "He'll be fine."

"Oh, but where will you go? What will you do?" she quavered.

"We will make do, Mrs Witherspoon," he told her firmly, "We will figure something out."

"Oh, but you must stay with me, at least tonight!" Mrs Witherspoon declared. "The house is definitely spacious enough, since the children have flown the nest and Mr Witherspoon is passed on."

"Mrs Witherspoon, we wouldn't dream of imposing..." Bobby began.

She would hear none of it. "It is the neighbourly thing to do, Mr Singer," she told him, drawing herself to her full height of about five foot nothing, "The neighbourly thing to do! What sort of a Christian would I be if I turned away my neighbours, homeless and hungry as night is falling, at their time of need?"

"Well, we've got at least another hour until sunset," began Sam, "And there are apartments in town that would be..."

Mrs Witherspoon set off determinedly towards her place, with a firm grip on Bobby's arm. He trailed along after her, a bemused barge under tow by a small but very determined tugboat.

"I suggest that we follow," intoned Castiel, "Since the Widow Witherspoon seems intent on abducting Bobby."

"We better go," agreed Sam, as Dean finally escaped from the paramedics, "We do not want to leave him alone with that woman."

Castiel stared hard after her. "Mrs Witherspoon's intentions are honourable," he announced. "She wishes to offer Bobby, and us, hospitality until such time as he can make other arrangements."

"Well, okay, then," Sam grudgingly agreed. "But we gotta stay sharp, in case she's planning on trying to take advantage of Bobby..."

"She is thinking about roast chicken," Castiel went on, "Mentally calculating whether the bird she has in the refrigerator will be large enough, and how many potatoes she will need to peel."

"Roast chicken?" Dean asked casually. "With roast potatoes?"

Castiel nodded. "She is now thinking about how many eggs she will need to make a pie of adequate size," he said.

"Pie?" Dean smiled hopefully.

"Peach," Castiel confirmed. "She is thinking that she will ask Sam to pick them, because he will be able to reach the fruit she would need to get the ladder for."

"I like the way her mind works," declared Dean. "What else is she thinking about that pie?"

"She is thinking about how many peaches it will take to make adequate filling," Castiel elaborated, "So that she can use her largest pie dish, the blue ceramic one."

"Gotta love a mind that works like that," grinned Dean.

"She is thinking about how it would be good to make a double batch of pie filling," Castiel added, "So that it will be readily available to make more pie."

"Mrs Witherspoon is clearly a lady with her priorities straight," Dean nodded approvingly.

"Her husband enjoyed her peach pie," Castiel informed them, "And she hopes that Bobby will like it too."

"I'm guessing she's a totally fantastic cook," Dean anticipated happily.

"She is wondering how large a slice Bobby would like for a first serving," said Castiel.

"All she has to do is ask," sighed Dean dreamily.

"She is wondering whether he would like cream or ice cream with his pie," said Castiel.

"She might be a crazy old bat, but Mrs Witherspoon is all right," Dean decided.

"She is wondering if he would enjoying having pie filling licked from his..."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!" shrieked Sam, breaking into a run. "Hang on, Bobby!" he shouted, "We're coming to save you!"

**oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo oooOOOoooOOOooo**

"This is ridiculous!" protested Dean as he lay on the Widow Witherspoon's sofa wrapped in a blanket.

"It is for your own good," Castiel said firmly, putting down a steaming mug. "Drink this."

Dean sniffed suspiciously at it. "What is that?" he demanded.

"Sweet tea," replied Castiel. "Mrs Witherspoon says it's very good for the nervous shock from which you are suffering."

"I'm not suffering from nervous shock!" contradicted Dean, "I'm fine!"

"That was not the professional opinion of the paramedics who attended to you," Castiel told him sternly.

"You were gibbering, bro," Sam pointed out, "And you went 'meeeeep'."

"I am not suffering from nervous shock!" insisted Dean petulantly.

"Yet you are apparently still agitated," Castiel pointed out, "One of the symptoms. And you have a history of being blasé about your own injuries and illnesses, so we must dismiss your opinion as unobjective."

"He's got a point," nodded Sam, "And you did look kinda pale when Cas fell out of the sky."

"Well of COURSE I looked pale!" shot back Dean, "I thought he was DEAD!"

"Which is a logical explanation for you suffering from nervous shock," said Castiel.

"I'M NOT SUFFERING FROM... oh, God," sighed Dean. "This blanket has cat hair on it."

"The patient must be kept warm," intoned Castiel. "Mrs Witherspoon was a nurse in her younger days, and she was quite specific about that."

"Patient? Patient?" Dean glared at Castiel, while Sam didn't even try to hide his smile, "When did I suddenly become a patient?"

"When you began to suffer from nervous shock," Castiel answered... patiently. "You must be kept warm and comfortable, and reassured. Since it was my fault that you have suffered from this condition, I wish to do all that I can to assist you to recover, to make amends." He fixed Dean with what was probably meant to be a benevolent expression. "I am fine, Dean, I am not dead, nor do I anticipate being dead at any time in the immediate future. I promise you that I will do my very best to remain not dead."

"That's..." Dean glared daggers at Sam, who was openly laughing, "That's... very reassuring, Cas. Thank you."

Castiel looked pleased. "You are welcome, Dean," he smiled, "Now, drink your tea before it gets cold."

"Anything else that Widow Kinkyspoon has prescribed for the poor incapacitated invalid?" Dean grumped, resignedly sipping at his tea. "Some chicken soup, perhaps? A lullaby to soothe me to sleep? A gentle hand swept tenderly across my furrowed brow?"

"Mrs Witherspoon did warn that insomnia can result following nervous shock, and that if you have trouble sleeping, a cup of hot chocolate followed by a back rub can be of..."

Dean snorted tea out of his nose, and Sam chuckled.

"Gah!" spluttered Dean. "Creepy pervy angel! Are you EVER going to learn about personal space?"

Castiel cocked his head. "If you would find that intrusive, having your hair brushed is also deemed to be..."

Sam laughed alound at Dean's expression. "Hey, Cas, you need to borrow my hairbrush? I bet Mrs Witherspoon has some lavender oil you could use."

"That would be useful," Castiel nodded, "Scalp massage is also a useful therapy for relaxation in cases of..."

"Nobody is getting within six feet of me!" yowled Dean, "Not with a brush, not with any stinky flower oil, and not with any creepy ideas about massage, beause I AM NOT SUFFERING FROM NERVOUS SHOCK, ALL RIGHT? I AM NOT STRESSED AND I AM NOT TENSE AND_ I DO NOT NEED TO RELAX!"_

"What the hell are you idjits doin' in here?" demanded Bobby, frowning as he entered the living room. Sam could only wheeze and point, while Dean choked and attempted to squirm away from Castiel's attempts to pat him on the back.

"Dean is being a most uncooperative patient," Castiel informed Bobby, with just a hint of reproach in his voice. "I wish to help him recover from the terrible shock that I gave him earlier today, yet he is being resistant to any potentially beneficial treatment strategies most helpfully suggested by Mrs Witherspoon."

Bobby glowered at the eldest Winchester. "Get with the program, boy," he instructed, "Because startin' tomorrow, Operation Salvage Singer Salvage begins, and I'll need you on deck, so you'd better be recovered."

"_But I'm not suffering from nervous shock!"_ Dean shrieked in outrage.

"Good. Whatever Feathers here is doin' must be workin'." Satisfied, Bobby turned to leave the room. "So you just do whatever he tells you, or I'll send Mrs Witherspoon in to deal with you instead, and she worked in the public health system for forty years and will not tolerate any nonsense..."

"Meeeeeeep!" went Dean, eyes wide with horror, as Sam burst into laughter again.

Castiel looked resolute. "I shall prepare more tea," he told Bobby, turning to pat Dean reassuringly on the shoulder, "And I am certain that he will get through this sudden relapse in time to assist you tomorrow."

Dean moaned in defeat, and slumped back onto the sofa. The cushions had cat hair on them too.

"If my proximity makes you uncomfortable, shall I ask Mrs Witherspoon to come and tuck you in?" asked Castiel solicitously. "She says that it is a very reassuring gesture to make to someone who has suffered a nervous shock."

"Never mind, bro," grinned Sam, "If you ask nicely, maybe she'll massage you with pie filling."

Dean let out a strangled gasp and pulled the blanket over his head. A muffled voice informed Sam:

"I hate you."

* * *

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Needing To Be Fed Sweet Tea And Tucked In On The Sofa Of Life!


	10. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

In the immediate aftermath, Bobby hired a large trailer to live in while the salvage of Singer Salvage was underway. They combed through the wreckage, salvaging what they could, and leaving the rest to be cleared by the wrecking contractors. Tiem and Zan, the gargoyles who sat atop the gates, had taken off when the house went up, as per the instructions Bobby gave them to get to safety if anything ever happened. They returned, and were most helpful in identifying things from the air, and in retrieving things that had been blown aloft and become lodged in trees, including some of Bobby's hats, Octo-Rabbit the much-loved squeaky dog toy and the box containing the rest of the antique tea set.

Castiel offered to restore Singer Salvage, but Bobby pointed out that a lot of people had heard the detonation and seen the aftermath and would be dreadfully suspicious if the establishment suddenly reappeared overnight. "Besides," Bobby gruffed at the angel, "You got bigger things to worry about settin' right, Feathers. So go on, git." With a small almost-smile, Castiel returned to Heaven to begin his quest to restore some sort of order, and rally the remaining Host, in order to get his Father's realm working as well as possible against the day The Almighty chose to return. He did, however, drop in on them occasionally to check Dean for signs of relapsing nervous shock.

Castiel stuck to his promise not to intervene in the rebuilidng. Bobby was a little suspicious when the insurance claim went through very quickly after the assessor's visit, and even more so when the water company was keen to settle the matter rapidly rather than risk the terrible publicity that would be associated with a lonely ageing widower having his home destroyed by their negligence (although the letter of demand prepared by Sam made it sound so traumatic that Dean told him he should've gone into tabloid journalism or professional extortion). However, when a bespectacled solicitor arrived the day after the bulldozer departed and announced that he was terribly sorry to have to bring him the sad news that his great-aunt Eulalia Uppington-Singer, very elderly, very eccentric and very rich widow, had passed away, leaving to him her houses, her money, and her cats, although her live-in housekeeper had become very fond of the cats over the years, and under the circumstances it would be an act of kindness to let the old dear retain custody of the feline companions, Bobby shook his head, glanced skyward, and muttered "Idjit".

He took to banning Dean and Sam from the yard entirely when the architect came to consult, on account of the arguments that arose and the way they hectored the poor woman about wanting everything from a climate controlled garage or a diving board into the bath to a humidity regulated library or a solar-powered hydroponics house for propagation of organic vegetables. Chateau Singer Mk II would be a bit bigger, and a bit better, and have some features that might strike a non-Hunter as a bit odd (but since Bobby could now lay claim to a reasonably tidy sum of money, that made him eccentric rather than barking mad), but there would certainly be no mirrored jacuzzi room, fully automated wifi digital office or indoor toboggan run from the Winchesters' room to the breakfast table.

The one time Castiel did drop in during the design phase, Bobby had sent the Winchesters to choose a paint scheme for their room, a task he was pretty sure would keep them busy for a couple of hours without agreeing on anything (he'd already decided for them anyway, but it got them out from under his feet). He was browsing through lists of bathroom fittings, and was weighing up the pros and cons of having a bidet installed in the main upstairs restroom, when a flap of wings and trench coat drew his attention.

Castiel was staring at the plans when he turned around.

"Aha, I was wonderin' when you'd show yourself," he chuckled. "How's Heaven? Lookin' after dear old Great-Aunt Eulalia, I hope, what with her bein' so convenient in her passing."

"You did in fact meet her, once," Castiel informed him.

Bobby's eyebrows shot up. "I'm pretty sure if I'd met anyone named Uppington-Singer I'd remember it," he said, "She got more syllables in her name than most of my family would've been able to count."

"She started life as Ellie Singer, who ran away to go into show business, and whilst employed as an exotic danseuse by the Sugar Babies Boom Boom Burlesque troop, caught the eye of a middle-aged businessman, married him, and thoroughly enjoyed spending his money and living in a style to which she had yearned to become accustomed." The angel cocked his head. "She was most taken with you. You were four years old, and you used your older brother's pellet pistol to shoot her mink stole because you were convinced it was still alive and trying to eat her. Your marksmanship and determination to save her from the 'rabid weasel' made quite an impression. As did your excited and somewhat graphic description of watching the house cow have her calf."

Bobby peered hard at Castiel. "Look, I know you're keen to make amends for what's happened, but you didn't, you know, give Great-Aunt Eulalia a bit of a push off the perch, did you? A little nudge?"

"She was 102, and was ill with a combination of cirrhosis, heart disease and kidney malfunction," Castiel assured him. "It was the fall from the coffee table on which she was dancing that killed her."

Bobby's eyes bugged. "She was 102 and she was dancin' on the coffee table?"

Castiel nodded. "She gave up dancing on the dining table in her late nineties, when climbing atop it became too difficult. She was, apparently, giving one of her gentleman callers a demonstration of the 'Eulalia Flip', a move she perfected as a young woman, which involved flicking her underwear across the room with her toes during a high kick to land in the lap of a lucky member of the audience..."

"I'm not sure I want to know any more," Bobby told him hastily, "And don't you dare go tellin' Dean about Great-Aunt Eulalia's... gentleman callers, or... talents. I'll never hear the end of it."

"I will not." Castiel peered at the plans Bobby had been perusing. "You probably should not rebuild this shed," he suggested, pointing to the paper. "That area will be needed for the kennels and pens."

"Huh?" Bobby looked at the angel as if he'd gone even madder. "I don't need kennels and pens, I got two dogs, and they have a kennel that they hardly ever use, the idjit animals like that old truck better than their kennel..."

"Not yet," Castiel offered a small smile, "But Jimi Senior's descendants will. Dean will need space to house the breeding bitches, and separate them from their litters when they are weaning. Hunters' dogs descended from 'Winchester Ladies' Man' will be highly sought after. The bloodline will rival Wildhunt and Jaegerhund."

Bobby just stared at him as Castiel continued. "Also, you may want to consider enlarging the downstairs guest room. It may be a better choice for bedroom for you when you are... no longer able to dance on the dining room table." The angel frowned. "This staircase should also be modified, to allow later retro-fitting of a stair lift. You will be too proud to use it, most of the time, but you will use it, especially since the Winchester twins will get such enjoyment from you taking them for rides on it..."

Bobby's jaw dropped. "Are you sayin'... a breeding kennel? And do you mean..."

"Of course, the future is never fixed until it happens," Castiel actually smiled, "As Dean and Sam have proved before now. But you are a Man of Knowledge, Bobby, and I trust you to keep such... sensitive information to yourself." He looked down at the plans. "I am merely making suggestions to assist you in rebuilding Singer Salvage as... efficiently as possible."

At that moment, the rumble of the Impala announced the return of the Winchesters. They had clearly been doing as Bobby instructed, if the continuing argument was anything to go by.

"No, Dean!" Sam was adamant, "Just no! Nobody paints their bedroom black, except fourteen year olds who are trying to annoy their parents!"

"It's practical!" argued Dean. "Black goes with everything!"

"I'm not sleeping in a room with all the ambiance of a crypt," snapped Sam.

"Well, I'm not sleeping in a room with a ceiling done in, what was, Pansy White?" Dean asserted.

"Lilac White," corrected Sam, "And it's not actually lilac, it's a very slight blue tint that's cooling, and very good for ceilings, it opens up a room and makes it look more spacious..."

"Did you swallow one of those stupid brochures?" demanded Dean. "You collected enough of 'em. Black is practical, it doesn't show the dirt, and there's no such colour as Pansy Black."

"Actually, there is," Sam smirked in petty triumph, unfolding a paint chart and waving it at Dean. "See? Right there. Under Midnight Meeting, next to Dating Darkness. Pansy Black. 'a glossy black sheen with a hint of purple iridescence'. Very 'Twilight', bro, very masculine. You want a poster of Edward on the door too?"

"Shut up! It'd be better than your suggestion of Whiny Bitch Blue!" Dean shot back.

"It wasn't called that!" Sam yelled. "Lime Wash Blue is a very subtle tint, and it would make the room look a lot more welcoming than Immature Jerk Matt Black! Do you really want to go to sleep and wake up in a room that looks like the inside of a casket?"

"Well, we don't leave it blank black walls, _duh_," Dean rolled his eyes, "It'll look really cool once we put up the posters..."

"Oh, yeah, your Twilight posters," nodded Sam, "I forgot about them. You want one of Jacob too? Maybe we get you one of the sparkly vampire and the near-naked werewolf photoshopped to be getting it off with each other, yeah, I'm sure you'd love that, Pansy Black man, oh, oh, I know, let's get one of those life-sized cardboard cut-outs of Edward for you! And a matching quilt cover and pillow case!"

"Hey, hey, we are having matching AC-DC quilt sets on the beds," Dean said firmly, "I have decided, so suck it up, Martha Stewart!" He flung a handful of paint chips at Sam.

"Immature colour-blind jerk!" Sam shouted, swatting at Dean with his handful of brochures.

"Whiny Blue bitch!" Dean returned fire, flinging more paint chips then rolling up the paint chart Sam had shoved at him and attempting to whack his brother with it.

"When you ladies are quite done smackin' each other with your fans," sighed Bobby, "Do feel free to join us."

"Hello Dean," said Castiel. "Hello Sam."

"Oh, er, yeah, hi Cas," Dean dropped his chart.

"Hi Cas," echoed Sam, spitting out a sample of Bedroom Tango (it was actually a lurid shade of orange, but Dean had liked the name so much he'd grabbed the swatch). "How's things, uh, Upstairs?"

"We are making progress," the angel informed him, "I just dropped by to check on progress with the redesign and reconstruction." He looked thoughtful. "I think that Bobby's choices of Night White for the ceiling and Cloudy Skies will be an adequate compromise for your room," he added. "You are going to have your own separate en suite."

"No way will I agree to those glass shower screens," scowled Sam, "Those totally transparent full length shower screens, it's creepy..."

"You go anywhere near the plumbing with your low-fat, high-fibre, dolphin-friendly let's-hold-hands-and-sing-Kumbaya-and-save-the-plant water-saving miserable-trickle-at-full-blast shower head, and I will end you," threatened Dean.

"I've been wonderin' if their own separate bungalow, waaaaaay over there, might be worth considerin'," grumbled Bobby, waving a hand across the yard.

"You can't put us all the way over there!" protested Sam.

"Not unless we can have a flying fox zip line directly into the kitchen," added Dean.

"Yeah, I guess I'd rather have you where I can see you," sighed Bobby in a resigned tone, "In the tent pissin' out, as it were."

Dean looked down at the plans. "So, have you had any more thoughts about the toboggan run?"

"Yep," answered Bobby, "And the answer is still no."

"Well, how about you put the garage under the house," Dean suggested, "And then we can have a fireman's pole down straight into..."

"Hate to break it to you, son," Bobby chuckled, "But you aint actually Batman."

"What about the pneumatic pod delivery system?" Dean pressed. "It would be great, we could send stuff to each other around the house! Sam could send you stuff from the library, and you could send me bacon and eggs in bed in the morning..."

"You might be onto somethin', there," nodded Bobby, "So when I lock you two bickering idjits in the underground Time Out cellar, I won't even have to listen to your bitchin' to feed and water you occasionally."

Both Winchesters looked horrified.

"You wouldn't!" gasped Sam.

"You can't do that!" squeaked Dean.

"He'll annoy me to death!" protested Sam.

"He'll gas me to death!" yelped Dean.

"Then you'll stop your whinin', you'll get what you're given, and you'll be grateful," Bobby's tone indicated that the discussion was at an end.

"Yes, Bobby," they chorused.

"Okay, then," Bobby nodded, "So, Sam, you were goin' to get on with sortin' out the books, estimatin' shelf space, and Dean, you were goin' to try to bring some sort of order to the garage shed for the moment, right? Right? Well, lay down your colourfully pigmented weapons, and have at it." He glared at them. "Today, gentlemen, any time today."

With a half-hearted exchange of "Bitch" and "Jerk", Sam headed into the trailer to put on coffee, while Dean gathered up fallen paint chips.

"I should leave also," Castiel told him, "I still have much to do."

"Well, it's good to hear that you're makin' progress," smiled Bobby. He watched Dean head for one of the less damaged sheds. "Are you certain I aint gonna kill 'em any time soon, before, you know, because I can't make any promises..."

"I am... quietly confident," answered Castiel. "Although I am certain that the future holds at least a dozen slaps to the side of the head." With a flap of trench coat, he was gone.

It was a clear afternoon. Bobby took his coffee, his brochures and the plans outside, and resumed debating with himself over the merits of an air-assisted flush cistern compared to a low-pressure electric booster pump.

It was almost an hour before the strains of argument drifted to his ears.

"Dean, take those and put them with all the broken junk to be thrown out!"

"Come on, Sam, these are irreplaceable reading material!"

"No! I refuse to deal with that garbage!"

"Garbage? These are_ irreplaceable_, Sam, these are _historical!"_

"Look, this is an opportunity to take a full inventory of Bobby's library, and come up with a proper catalogue and filing system. If I can just convince him to go with the bar-coding system..."

"Yeah, and these need to be catalogued! Catalogued, and filed away carefully for future reference!"

"Future...? Are you nuts? It's gonna be weeks, months of work, just to deal with the really important stuff!"

"This _is_ really important stuff! Really, really important!"

"No it's not! Get rid of them!"

"They have to be _saved_, Sam!"

"Dean, for the last time, I am NOT inventorying, cataloguing and archiving a crate full of thirty year old 'Busty Asian Beauties' back issues..."

Bobby rolled his eyes, and they fell on the plans. Castiel was right; he'd leave the space to build kennels at some time in the future.

If nothing else, it might give him a place to separate those two idjits before they drove him mad.

_**...-... THE END ...-...**_

* * *

Ta-dah! Bunny #3 gets stomped! *small furry squelchy sound*. Although I suppose the Denizens will want a certain van to make an appearance. They are depraved, after all. I'll just have to go and tally up the reviews and see who's rostered on this week...

At least now I'll hopefully get a bit of peace for a little while, until another one comes along. I know it's you lot, by the way, breeding them, fitting them with flotation outriggers and GPS navigation and sending them Down Here. It's amazing how many get past our Immigration Control patrols.

Anyway, I will be... what? *peers in despair into tea mug* Aaaaaaargh! Who left this plot bunny here? Shut up! Shut up! Shut up, you rambling rodent, you loony lagomorph, you... what? 'Grumpy Old Winchesters'? 'Even Grumpier Old Bobby'? 'Dean trying to chat up his doctor'? 'Coming out of retirement to tackle a job'? 'Posing as retirement home clients'? 'Dean trying to hit on nurses'? 'Female residents hitting on Sam'? Yes, yes, that's all very well, but do you actually have a plot? What do you mean, no? You idiot! Go away until you have something resembling an actual storyline. I'm supposed to be doing the one with Jimi's puppies next! *stuffs bunny into a disused teapot* Stupid creatures. I hate it when they have a very vague idea, but no details. Curse them! Curse them! We hates uncooperative plot bunnies! We hates them! We hates them forevaaaaaaah!

Ahem. Right. Sorry.

Reviews are the Winchester Of Your Choice Joining You In a) The Carefully Catalogued Barcoded Library b) The Black Bedroom or c) The Mirrored Jacuzzi Room Of Life!

Reviews also make the little bastar... sorry, the little bunnies whisper more loudly.


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